Corner of the Housetop: Buried Secrets (24 page)

The words died on his lips as he looked passed the porch railing to the carriage house. There was a section of white paint on the side of the building that stopped just a couple feet from the ground. Numbly, ignoring Mr. Smithfield, Derek walked around the end of the porch, the entire building coming into view. Not only were there swirls of white on the carriage house, but on the side of the main house as well. Along the short walk that led from one building to the other, there were splashes of paint on the stone edging and in the grass.

A cold feeling took hold of Derek's insides when he saw that the side door was open, and that there were small, white shoe prints walking up the steps and into the hall.

"No," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. There was no way Mrs. Worthington wasn't going to blame him for this.

Mr. Smithfield appeared around the side of the porch. "Derek?"

"No way," he said more loudly, leaning against the wall.
I'm dead. I'm dead. She'll kill me.

"What on earth Oh my."

Before either could say anything else, an earth-shattering screech resonated from the open side door. "
DEREK
!"

His eyes closed slowly as he rolled his head back and hit it on the wall. "No."

"
Derek, get in here this instant
!"

Pushing away from the wall, Derek shook his head from side to side, his shoulders slumped in defeat. There was no avoiding her wrath. As he climbed the stairs and walked down the hall, Mr. Smithfield's heavy steps following behind him were the sealing sound of doom latching itself to Derek's very soul. This was going to be a lecture the likes of which the world had never known. He was sure of it. And then whatever punishment she would attach to it...

When he walked into the room, Derek nearly laughed at what he saw. Abigail, covered nearly from head to foot in paint, was standing as much behind Jonathan as she could get, her white fingers curled in tight fists around handfuls of his expensive trousers, smearing them with paint. She peeked around his knee, her round eyes staring out from under her doll hair with unmasked fright. She looked as terrified as Derek felt.

"Daddy!" Abigail ran across to the room, past Derek, and clung to her father's legs.

Half expecting the man to push her away so she wouldn't get him dirty, Derek was more than a little surprised to see Mr. Smithfield scoop the girl up without hesitation. "What did you do?"

"I was helping Derek."

"Were you?"

She nodded.

"Did he ask you to?"

"No, Daddy." She looked at Derek. "I think you're in trouble."

"You think?" he snapped, glaring at her.

With a huff and a snort like Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth's, Mrs. Worthington shifted in her seat so she was facing them. "Hold your temper, boy. It's not her fault. Don't blame others for your ignorance and carelessness."

"I'm sure Derek didn't "

Jonathan locked eyes with Mr. Smithfield over Mrs. Worthington's head. He shook his head slightly, silencing the man. "Why don't you take Abigail down to Beth? I'm sure she could do with a bath and a change of clothes."

Derek watched the different shades of thought pass over Mr. Smithfield's features before he nodded slightly. With a nod to Mrs. Worthington, he turned from the room.

Without Mr. Smithfield to act the angel for, Mrs. Worthington's demeanor transformed, her eyes narrowing into deadly slits. "Come in here, boy," she hissed.

Figuring it wouldn't do any good to try and tell her it wasn't his fault, Derek walked into the room silently, stopping in front of Mrs. Worthington's chair.

She glared up at him like a coiled viper waiting for just the right moment to strike. There was a furious tick in her right cheek that made Derek wish he was on the other side of the room. Mrs. Worthington leaned forward, her thin lips pressed tightly together, her bony fingers gripping the arms of the chair viciously. "What were you thinking, boy?" Far from the screeching madness she usually displayed, Mrs. Worthington was calm, her voice measured.

"I had to get something for Gabriel."

Thin lips puckered together.

"Mrs. Smithfield wanted to go riding and he couldn't find the bridle."

White fingers forcibly released the chair arms, tapping soundlessly on the fabric.

"When I got back to the fence, where I left the bucket, it was gone."

After a moment of silent, Mrs. Worthington's cracked, old lips formed into a kind smile. "So let me understand you," she began sweetly. "
Gabriel
needed you to get something for
Mrs. Smithfield
?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Her smile faded and the usual dark scowl returned, her eyes flashing dangerously. "You lazy, foolish, evil little ingrate!" she snapped. "Blaming everyone but yourself who just happens to be the only person at fault!"

A little more comfortable with Mrs. Worthington back to normal, Derek looked dutifully at the floor with as much of a shamed expression as he could muster. There was no use debating the matter of blame, and he supposed he probably
should
have known better than to leave the little demon alone with the paint.

"Stupidity! It's pure stupidity!"

"As good a lecture as I'm sure you've prepared," Jonathan cut in with a cool voice, "I think what he needs to do is get on to cleaning up. We only have a couple days to rectify the damage. The sooner he gets to it, the more likely he'll finish in time."

"What he needs is another good whipping," Mrs. Worthington snarled nastily.

"I won't disagree with you, but at the moment that wouldn't be very productive." Stepping up beside his mother, his clean, pale hand resting on the back of her chair, Jonathan fixed Derek with a pointed look. Staring down his nose, and said, "I suggest you get started. You'll be at it a while and you're already behind on your chores as it is."

There was a cold assurance and commanding certainty in Jonathan's voice. His actions and his words clearly showed some new dominance in the odd relationship he had with his mother. If the man's demeanor surprised Derek, the fact that Mrs. Worthington didn't argue her point and try to continue her lecture nearly made his jaw fall to the floor.

With another meaningful look in Derek's direction, Jonathan raised his eyebrows, the most expressive sign of impatience that was likely to come from him, and said, "The sooner you get started, the better."

"There'll be no supper for you tonight. Nor breakfast, either, if you haven't finished the hall by morning." Mrs. Worthington seemed to be grasping at her authority in the situation, her voice sharp as her eyes narrowed. Whatever power exchange had taken place when Jonathan had stepped forward and over-ridden her command now shifted back to normal order, placing Mrs. Worthington comfortably in control once again.

By the smirk that formed on her face as Jonathan walked out of the room without further comment, Derek guessed that she very much preferred it that way.

"Yes, ma'am," Derek said quietly, turning to leave.

"And you'd better do a neat job of it, boy. And stay out of the way."

"Yes, ma'am," he repeated, suppressing a groan of annoyance.

Two hours later, Derek was still on his hands and knees, trying his best to get the white paint off the floor. Fortunately, it hadn't had much time to sit and dry, so it was coming up fairly easily.

Unfortunately
, he'd already been kicked twice. Once by Mrs. Smithfield, who hadn't noticed him when she walked in, and once by Beth, who was carrying a basket of laundry down the stairs, around which she couldn't see him. His muscles were getting sore from the work and, he couldn't help but point out to himself, he was getting hungrier and hungrier as the smells from dinner wafted up the kitchen stairs. There was no way he'd finish in time to eat.

Scowling, Derek continued scrubbing the white shoe print. It was the last one in the hall and then he'd be on his way outside to pull up the paint-covered stones that lined the sides of the walk and replace them with brick from the pile in the shed. After that was done, he had to start painting the carriage house. And then there was the side of the house…

As he continued to clean, the voices from the parlor floated out into the hall. "I can't tell you how sorry I am." Mrs. Smithfield was sitting with Mrs. Worthington and her children, apologizing yet again for Abigail.

"Not at all, my dear. I'm sure little Abigail didn't mean to do anything wrong. Derek should have been paying more attention. It's quite not your fault. He's always been fairly careless when it came to his responsibilities." Mrs. Worthington's sugary laughter tinkled through the thick air as if humidity didn't exist in her private world of perfection. "Frankly, I'm surprised something worse than this hasn't happened sooner."

"That's no excuse "

"Dear, please, don't even give it another thought."

Oh no,
Derek thought, scrubbing harder.
Don't even give it another thought. It's really no problem at all. I hate her,
he thought viciously, sloshing milky water on the floor as he threw his rag in the bucket.
I hate her so much
.

Standing, up, his shirt dripping with sweat and dirty water, Derek took the bucket and went out to the walkway. There was still enough light for him to pick out the bricks he needed to replace. Kneeling to examine the main stepping stones that led from the carriage house to the side door, Derek found that the heat of the day had already baked the white paint onto the path, rendering it impossible to clean. Wondering if Mrs. Worthington would rather hear this news before or after dinner, he hauled the bucket up once more.

Walking around the side of the carriage house, he dumped out the dirty water and started towards the well to refill the bucket. Fresh water, a stiff scrub brush, and a new rag from the shed in hand, Derek returned to the path. Getting even a little of the paint off would be a help. At least, it would look better when Mrs. Worthington came out to make sure he wasn't just being lazy.

By Friday evening, Derek felt just about as bad as he thought he possibly could. His every muscle ached, he had a constant headache, and he didn't think he would ever be able to catch up on all the sleep he'd missed. However, all his chores were finished. All he had to do was serve one more dinner that evening, then he would be free to return to the stables, never to step foot in that terrible house ever again: or so he told himself to help him get through his final chores of the week.

As Derek set out the dishes, he was pleased to find himself Abigail-free. One good thing to come of his severe lecture and extra chores was that the girl seemed to finally understand exactly how much trouble she'd gotten him in. She was staying very far away from him, either out of guilt or on order from her father. Even when he set her dish in front of her at mealtimes, all she did was stare at her lap and say, "Thank you," in a voice so quiet Derek almost could not believe it came from her.

After the family filed in, Derek set out the platters and bowls. Abigail stared at her plate and no one else said anything to Derek. Mrs. Smithfield gave him a slight smile, but that was the only sign that anyone even knew he was there.

Returning to the kitchen where Beth and Atty were busily pouring clotted cream over sugared buns so they'd be ready to send up for dessert, Derek set his tray on the counter and slumped into the chair by the hearth. "Exactly how long are the Smithfields supposed to be here, anyway?"

"They're leaving in another week, I think," Atty answered. She had finally stopped calling him "sir."