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Chapter 12
Night came, and with it, another unexpected change. For the first time since I arrived, Felicity didn’t appear. Nor did I see her the next morning. The mystery was uncovered when a harried Ms. Dillard informed me, as she was rushing to tend to extra chores, that Felicity had caught a dreadful stomach flu and was quarantined to her rooms until she was well. I offered to help Ms. Dillard tend to her, but she brushed me off and sent me to the library, where the professor was waiting. He immediately asked after my injury, which was barely a dull ache thanks to Dr. Hannigan’s medical attention, then the day commenced, productive and filled with ease. Professor Hughes was much gentler in his demeanor but kept a professional distance, coming near only to examine notes I had found or show me where to index a new file. He wasn’t as stormy as usual, and his smiles, though controlled, were frequent. He ventured to ask me no personal questions, and I took his cue, and we spoke only of the work at hand. Though, as before, there were times when I looked up to find him examining me, his aspect severe and inscrutable.
Professor Hughes left as soon as our work was done, and I didn’t see him again for the remainder of the evenings. My nights were quiet and less restless. With employment, concerns abated, and the house’s strangeness no longer new to my senses, I’d begun to settle. I walked familiar halls to visit my favorite statues and views. I crunched through the brown grass and mulch of the garden, chatting with Rodney, who was always proud of the way things were coming. He often flirted with me in his careless way. One afternoon, while the professor was in town for business, he entertained me by showing me the method of tying broom plants back to separate the kelpie pond from the topiaries. When the broom bloomed, it would create an artificial wall of yellow flowers until fall. At one point, he looked at me in a manner that suggestedhe might recite a poem. His cheerful smile had taken on a wistful softness, and I finally noticed his resemblance to Felicity. When he reached out his calloused hand, I remained perfectly still, thinking he meant to caress my face. I wasn’t against the idea. Rodney seemed a stable sort, hard-working and in love with the gardens. His laugh was catching, and he didn’t brood, a much better choice for me than dark-haired types prone to moodiness. He brushed his fingers against my temple and came away with a ladybug that had been crawling along the curls there.
“Pretty little thing,” he said, lifting his blue gaze to mine and offering another of his cheeky winks before the strawberry-shelled insect took flight.
I tried to bring the sunshine of those afternoons inside with me, and at the very least my trips through the hallways at night had ceased. Though I’d woken up once two nights ago lying on the bedroom floor near the door, it seemed the lock had done its job to deter me. The fact that I was still sleepwalking wasn’t soothing, but that I could be so easily hindered was a positive sign.
To further keep me occupied was the fascinating consideration of the dinner event, which would be held in two weeks. I had nothing to prepare as Ms. Dillard had already taken my measurements for the dress. I’d argued with Professor Hughes about supplying me with even more clothes until, with an exasperated sigh, he said, “Did you bring an evening dress with you, then, Miss Foxboro?”
I faltered, “I didn’t realize the dinner would be a formal event.”
“All the dinners at Willowfield are, the guests expect it, so please don’t vex me anymore with your obstinate pride.” I should have been insulted, but he was grinning as though he found such obstinate pride endearing rather than vexing as he had said.
“I’m not the obstinate one,” I muttered, unable to give him the last word but willing to acquiesce this once. After all, it was true that I didn’t own a formal dress.
He glanced at me sideways but said no more.
So I enjoyed the anticipation, which I’d had for nothing in a long time.
Halfway to the date, the professor was required to leave again for business in town, expressing his regret that he still had the family perfumery to run. I asked how he was able to balance both the company and his career as an academic.
“Sometimes I don’t,” he replied with a self-deprecating smile and departed.
Determined to make myself useful, I showed up in the kitchen the next day to find Ms. Dillard elbow-deep in soap suds, scrubbing the pots she had used to make lunch. Without Felicity, she no longer had the ability to make it seem as though meals appeared by magic.
Without a word, I began to dry the washed dishes. She eyed me distrustfully at first, then began to instruct me where to put the clean items. When that was done, she handed me a large basket, pointed me to the pantry for dry ingredients, and put me to work arranging the dough for a turnover. My trip into the pantry revealed that I’d been right about the cellar. There was a flight of stairs set into the naked stone wall, leading down.
“Do you need help preparing for the dinner?” I asked when I returned. “It’s nice being here, I like this kitchen.”
It was true, though this one was much larger and more formal than the one I’d grown up in, it was the most comfortable and familiar of all the places in Willowfield, and the touches of whimsy here were not ostentatious. There were small painted clovers on the tile behind the stove and a threadbare woven rug under the table where staff took meals, medieval illuminations of unicorns in its corners.
“The professor is having the meal catered by an out-of-town company,” she replied, satisfied with the decision. “I’ll be having a night off.”
“That sounds lovely. I’m sure you don’t get many with such a large house to tend alone.”
Another suspicious look.
“Please,” I said at last, “I’m trying to make friends. I understand if you don’t want to, but can we at least be civil to one another? I am not a lady, a guest, or anyone of any consequence at all. I’m here as staff for six months, perhaps less if Professor Hughes and I keep progressing at the pace we are. There’s no reason to be so standoffish. I’m not going to bite you.”
I said the last bit with a petulant punch to the dough.
“Tell me about your cook, then,” Ms. Dillard said when I thought she wouldn’t respond. “You said she was like a mother to you.”
It was such a personal thing to start with, but Ms. Dillard’s tone had softened considerably. I knew she was reaching across the table in her own way.
“Well, she was loud and always sounded angry but never was. She wouldn’t let me help much because it made my mother so angry to find me covered in flour or grease, but she would give me chores to do to keep me occupied, and she brought books back for me when she went to town. She taught me the names of the spices in the pantry and let me organize everything. I lived under her feet for years, and she never scolded me for my hand in the honey jar or fingerprints in the bread dough.”
I glared at the dough I was kneading and felt the keen loss of her.
“She plied me with almond cookies when I was sad and promised me the world outside the house was good when the world inside wasn’t.”
She’d also been the one to release me from the wardrobe at night when my mother had fallen asleep.
“It’s a shame you didn’t learn how to cook” was all Ms. Dillard said in response, her voice strangely thick.
“I wanted to, but didn’t get the chance. She died after I graduated from university.”
