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He tipped his flat cap to me then hurried down the steps, eager to be back in the warmth of the car and as far away from the estate as possible. With a last wary glance at the house, he pulled the beautiful roadster out of the driveway and onto the way that would lead him through the woods toward town.
“A kind fellow to be so concerned for you,” the doctor complimented, watching the car for a moment, his cheeks as rosy as St. Nick’s. “Nothing to worry about, though. I’d trust the professor with my life. Ms. Dillard, too, even though the woman is darned hard to read sometimes.”
I laughed and followed him to the door. “He spent some of the ride trying to convince me this place was haunted.”
Dr. Hannigan stopped short and I nearly ran into him.
“Haunted? What nonsense!”
He seemed so genuinely displeased I was sorry I’d said anything.
“That’s exactly what I told him. He was just trying to pull my leg, no harm done.”
Seeing I wasn’t put off by spine-tingling tales, the doctor was placated.
“All of that rot is what’s nearly done this place in, the nasty rumors and the ghastly lies about spirits. One by one all the servants quit, and as the place became emptier even the sturdiest of them got spooked. A place like this is filled with nothing more than memories. I’m glad to know you’re of sturdy mind.”
The door was heavy and impeded by the vines. It took the doctor a good bit of effort to open.
“Damn this door. No one uses it anymore. The hinges are worthless, and all these weeds are growing over it like the blasted secret garden. The few who make it to the estate just use the back entrance; I should have taken you that way.”
With another heave, the door finally gave, complaining every inch it moved. Slightly winded, the doctor raised his arm in a dignified gesture, inviting me in.
I stepped into the foyer, my breath leaving me. Towering marble pillars drew the eye to the imposing arch it supported, separating the entryway from the main hall beyond. The focal point from the door was a magnific staircase sweeping to the second floor, branching out left and right before climbing again to the third and final level above. Titanic lanterns, topped with frosted globes, flanked the first steps, the intricate styling of each arm boasting what appeared from here to be animals of all kinds. I longed to get a closer look.
The stairs themselves were in a state of ruin: sections of banister missing, cracked marbling only partially replaced, the great red carpet runner rolled and discarded on the floor, dusty and worn. Here was evidence of halted renovations, projects half done and abandoned by superstitious workers. Giant pots of ferns loomed around the main hall, surrounded by seating that invited a guest to linger, to wait for the appearance of their host. I imagined the fine women who must have made their entrance down the steps into a crowd of waiting admirers, smiling and glittering with anticipation.
I pulled my attention back into the foyer where we stood, more stairs flanking us, practical and less resplendent but beautiful with their carved banisters and worn floral runners. These went only one floor up and appeared oft used but sturdy. Slightly visible from here were hallway doors above, painted white. The deeply embossed Lincrusta wallpaper, gold and blue, added an almost mind-addling dimension to the space. But there, near the edges of the windows and around the plaster ceiling coffers, seeping water stains pulled and marred the designs, bloating the wall beneath. I imagined the soft, pulpy feel of it under my fingers and shivered.
The house as a whole was astounding, a show of both impressive wealth and work, but I wondered what aspects of the opulence would fall away upon closer inspection, what other decay might be discovered if I dared peer closely enough. Yet even in disrepair, the house was far grander than anywhere I’d ever laid my head. I allowed myself to enjoy a positive thought. With the staff being so reduced, I could explore unhindered. The prospect was thrilling.
“Just wait here, my dear. I’ll go along and let Callum know you’ve arrived.”
I hadn’t considered the possibility the doctor would leave me alone. The remaining daylight was enough to illuminate the entrance hall, but there were no electric lights on, and no gas lights besides. The sun was beginning to make its western descent, turning the cloudy sky a bruised purple. Soon dusk would fall and I might very well be standing in the dark. Despite my concerns, I gave a cheerful nod, and Dr. Hannigan took off to the left, skipping up the stairs with commendable spryness for a man of his age. I stood awkwardly alone for a minute and contemplated the plaster ceiling but felt so silly and small waiting by the door. To shake the unsettling sensation of being fully alone, I made the most of the remaining sunlight and ventured to peek into the great hall.
I gingerly made my way through the middle of the vast space, between the ferns that reached like fingers toward the ceiling, miles above. Without the archway blocking my view, I could see the glass domes set above the plants to offer them the light they needed to thrive. The cold, however, had sealed their fate, and this close I discovered they were dry and brown. My curiosity led me farther to the stairs where the lanterns loomed, formidable and exquisite. I had been right. The brass arms of the lamp were each set with an exotic animal in motion. Giraffes lifting their heads toward the glass, a rhinoceros with front legs raised in stampede, elephants whose mighty trunks wrapped around the patinaed branches of a tree, and a lion, sitting proudly at the bottommost arm, its face turned toward the hall like a sentinel. The lion’s gaze was so mournful, as though it longed to see anything but the dark, empty space of this once-glittering house. I ascended a stair to brush my fingers along its carved muzzle when a woman’s scream pierced the silence, filling the hall with an echo of fear. I lurched sideways away from the wail, lost my footing, and tumbled to the floor.
Chapter 3
I hit the floor on my hands and knees, a twinge shooting up my right wrist at the clumsy way I’d caught myself. With the echoing shriek still bouncing between my ears, I looked up, no doubt resembling a frightened animal, to find an even more frightened housemaid, both hands tightly clasped over her mouth. Her breath came in quick rushes from her dainty nose, and she trembled as though she’d seen a corpse rise from its grave. Whatever color might have been present on her ivory cheeks had drained, and she was as white as the linens that spilled haphazardly from the laundry basket she’d dropped to the floor.
I was annoyed. She’d scared me witless, but, apparently, I’d done the same to her. As I worked to pull myself together, an older woman, somewhere in her fifties, and a golden haired man came rushing across the hall from opposite directions.
“What in heaven’s name!” The elder lady’s fair features were softened by her years, and though her hair was still primarily chestnut brown, she’d fashioned it in an outdated billowing coif that made her look like an aging Gibson girl. She wore a modest gray dress, plain and uncomplicated, and a starched white apron, not a smudge on it. I surmised she belonged to the house.
As for the man, if I’d been a schoolgirl, I would have called him an Adonis, blond and tan, sun-soaked despite the brutal weather. It was clear he spent his days outside, regardless of the temperature. He checked the maid’s well-being with a glance, then leveled his bright eyes, cornflower blue, in my direction, curious. He was average height and broad, muscular from labor. Dirt was smudged along the exposed skin of his arms where his sleeves had been rolled up, and the mud caking his work boots had made a long, dirty trail behind him. This was the groundskeeper Dr. Hannigan had mentioned, and the woman was surely Ms. Dillard, the head housekeeper—all of Willowfield’s staff gathered in the main hall.
Ms. Dillard finally gave me her attention, flustered concern deforming into something mildly bitter, as though she’d bit into a lemon rind. Decorum spirited away the unpleasant twist of her lips and a waxy neutrality reformed her face. This was not a woman who wanted guests in the house, especially not guests like me.
“You’re Miss”—she paused, searching for the name—“Foxboro.”
At this point, I and everyone else realized I was still sprawled on the floor. I hastily prepared to stand at the same time the groundskeeper rushed to aid me. He smelled of frost and damp earth, and something else, something sweet. His touch was gentle, his fingers calloused. His nose, likely broken once or twice, tilted slightly to the right, adding a bit of devil to his otherwise angelic face.
“Sorry, miss,” he apologized, though I wasn’t sure why.
“What’s all this?” came the harried voice of the doctor. Though he’d completed the job of announcing my arrival, Professor Hughes was not with him. “What’s happened?”
He bustled toward me, Ms. Dillard opening her mouth to say something before being brushed aside. She huffed, pestered by the insolence. The maid had not moved but continued to stare, a paralyzed horror lingering in her eyes.
