Raquel Byrnes (7 page)

“The ghosts, of course,” she whispered.

“The what?”

“Haven’t you heard them at night?” Lavender asked, and the look on her face told me she wasn’t joking.

“Uh…no.” I shook my head, a weird feeling tumbling in my stomach.

“You will,” she said and shrugged. “I do.”

With that, she turned on her heels and ran back through the meadow.

“Wait—” I began, but she was already weaving through the flowers, a giggle carried on the wind.

I watched her leave, not sure if the chill shuddering up my spine was from the cold.

7

The next few days went by quickly as I settled into a routine. I read aloud to Davenport every morning while he ate his breakfast in bed. On our walks in the garden, he’d tell me about his years spent traveling. Stories about dark continents and wild seas that made me admire how fully he’d lived his life. Shadow Bay Hall, in the family for generations, had always been his home base. He’d returned for good when Simon’s mother died seven years ago.

The first couple of mornings, I walked to the meadow and back if the weather was nice. Although I chose a route that would take me past the cottage, I hadn’t seen Simon in some time. But the past five days poured rain, and I’d been stuck inside.

Mrs. Tuttle explained that he often got lost in his work and even slept in his workshop when he was working on a project, not that it was my business, according to the remarks muttered under her breath.

For the most part, Mrs. Tuttle and O’Shay seemed to operate on their own. I rarely saw either of them except at meals when either she or O’Shay dropped a tray of food off at my bedroom. No one ate together. Lavender ran wild through the large house often disappearing for hours at a time. With so many rooms and three stories, it didn’t surprise me that I could go a whole day without hearing or seeing her.

On the morning marking the end of my first week at Shadow Bay Hall, I fluffed a pillow vigorously and pushed it behind Davenport’s back.

“I can’t abide this bed anymore,” he said grumpily. “It’s lumpy and there’s something wrong with the headboard. I think it’s lopsided.”

“Lopsided?” I regarded Davenport’s pinched face, my eyebrows raised. “Should I ask O’Shay to come and take a look?”

He shot me a look. He was getting cabin fever. Nothing was wrong with the bed. Though any attempt on my part to have the doctor visit was met with abject denial that he felt sick at all.

“I’d like more of that tincture you gave me yesterday,” he said. “My throat feels scratchy.”

“Chamomile and honey is hardly a tincture,” I said, but reached for my mahogany botany box. I selected a glass bottle with dried chamomile blossoms, dropped them in his cup, and poured some water over them with the kettle I’d brought up from the kitchen.

“And the valerian root?” he asked.

“It’s more of a muscle relaxant, Mr. Hale. I’ll make you a cup of it after you’ve walked around a bit today.”

Davenport Hale was proving a challenging man. No more temper flared like the night he’d hired me. Yet as the days wore on, he looked frailer—as if these past days were taking more out of him than thirty years of adventures.

“You know, I’m antsy being inside so much,” I said. “We haven’t been on a walk in a bit.”

“Are you?” He kept his eyes on his newspaper,
The Noble Chronicle
.

“Well, this is certainly a beautiful island.”

“Beyond comparison,” Davenport added.

“Truly.” I nodded and poured him some more tea. “But I do miss the beaches and open skies of California. It seems like forever since I’ve seen the sun.”

“It might come out today.” Davenport’s hand shook as he lifted the cup to his lips, and I made a mental note to ask Dr. Fliven if Davenport’s medication would cause tremors. “Not for long, mind you, not like your beloved California, but long enough to take the chill off of you. Maybe around noon, I’d say, that’s when we might get the sun.”

I’d been trying to get him to get out of bed for days, but he refused. He was either too tired, or just woke up, or he was about to go to sleep. I suspected that depression might be setting in. Staying in bed for too long wasn’t good for the mind.

“Well, I’d hate to miss it, but I wouldn’t be able to hear you from out there, and bothering Mrs. Tuttle would be rude.”

“Well, she’s got a house to run, of course,” Davenport said, but he squinted at me, thinking. “But, I suppose, if you insist on needing the sun for your health—”

“My health,” I repeated. “Yes.”

“Perhaps I can join you in the garden so that we don’t bother Tuttle. I’m not in the mood for her sulking if we interrupt her daily schedule.”

“How about we eat lunch in the garden?” I tried. “The wind has died down, and even if the sun doesn’t break through, at least the fresh air will do me good.”

“If you really want to eat out there, then I suppose it’ll be fine.” Davenport shrugged, his hands snapping the newspaper upright. “I can accommodate you, Ms. Ryan, for your health.”

He grumbled a bit when I made him take his medicine, but his mood seemed to lift.

Mine lifted too. The old house did little to help me sleep well, the creaking and groaning coupled with my restlessness made for long tiresome nights. Lying awake, Lavender’s warning about ghosts would come back to me. I needed to get outside.

We ended up disrupting a hefty portion of Mrs. Tuttle’s day. She insisted on having O’Shay drag out the garden furniture, set up a chaise longue for Davenport, and a table for me. She then went out of her way to make a meal that would be considered extravagant for high tea with the queen.

“Really, Mrs. Tuttle,” I said as I trailed behind her. She carried a tray full of cream puffs and fruit cut into little shapes. “I was just going to make some sandwiches and maybe bring out a pitcher of tea. We would’ve eaten in the gazebo. There’s no need for all of this fuss.”

“Nonsense,” she scolded and set the tray on the white iron table. She turned to face me, her cheeks red with exertion. “You can’t expect Mr. Hale to eat his meal amongst the cobwebs and dead leaves of the gazebo, Ms. Ryan.”

“No, but I would have gladly swept it out—”

“There are black widow spiders. We need to call a man to spray.”

“But—”

“Maybe next time you can give me more than a moment’s notice,” she uttered and turned to leave.

I sighed as she walked away, then sank onto the cushioned seat near the small round table.

O’Shay walked down with Davenport. Wrapped in a large sweater and sagging pants, Davenport looked old. His gaze grazed the table set with the meal and he chuckled.

“Can’t imagine she’s happy with you.” He slumped onto the chaise and took a moment to catch his breath.

“I tried to help.” I took the small plates from the tray and doled out treats for both of us.

“She’s used to running the place the way she sees fit. With a house full of men, no one ever gives her notice.”

“Are you saying I’m a fly in the ointment?” I poured us some tea and took a tentative sip. At least it wasn’t Simon’s nasty brew.

“I’m saying she’s never liked anyone new here,” Davenport said. His gray eyes held mine. “Lavender seems the only one who isn’t impressed with Tuttle’s fussing.”

“Lavender’s certainly spirited.” I licked the homemade whipped cream from my pinky.

“She misses her mother.” He looked at me over his half-moon glasses, the cup to his lips.

I got the impression he was weighing my reaction.

“Did she pass away?” I picked up my cup and mirrored his position. The steam from the tea rose up in lazy rivulets.

“Yes,” Davenport said. “Terrible accident.”

“I’m sorry.” I spotted bouncing ringlets just over the rose bushes. A giggle floated to me on the breeze. “I think that’s Lavender.”

He turned in his seat and nodded.

“Right here on the island,” he said quietly and took another sip. “Fell right off a cliff.”

I stopped chewing, a strawberry halfway to my lips.

“What?”

“Amanna fell to her death over at Echo Cliffs.” Davenport leaned in, his shaky hand cupping his words at his cheek. “Almost two years ago.”

“That’s…I’m so sorry,” I said again. “I had no idea it was so recent.”

I expected Davenport to say more, but instead he pulled the napkin from his lap and nestled into the chaise.

I sat quietly, watching his steady breathing before pulling the blanket from the armrest and covering him. He muttered and fell back into a light snore.

I leaned back and stared through the trees to the heavens pocked with gray clouds. Light struck through them, shards of brilliance against a sad sky. Leaves swooped to the ground on a cooling breeze.

I closed my eyes and listened to the tinkle of the chimes.

“Are you sleeping?”

Lavender’s voice right next to my ear sent me bolt upright. I yelped, and she stumbled back, her eyes wide. Her lip trembled.

“You scared me, sweetie.” I let out a nervous chuckle. “I must have jumped ten feet in the air!”

Lavender’s face relaxed, and she smiled. “You didn’t jump that high.”

I put my finger to my lips.

She looked at her grandfather sleeping, and then tiptoed with cartoonish exaggeration over to the other seat.

I noticed how genuinely beautiful she was. Her deep, dark hair against alabaster skin, with piercing blue eyes, was striking. Her father’s eyes.

I remembered the pictures on the library mantel and wondered why the house had no pictures of her mother.

“Are you hungry?” I pushed a plate to her. “Mrs. Tuttle made a ton of goodies.”

“You think I can have a sweet first?” Her eyes were pleading.

“How could I possibly say no to that face?”

I nodded and she dove into the cream puff, most of it squirting out the other end.

I giggled as I helped her wipe the whipped cream from her dress. She ate my lunch and half of Davenport’s. I watched her, my throat squeezing with sadness. To lose a mother so young, under any circumstance, tore at one’s heart. I knew this.

She caught me staring and offered a bite of her strawberry. “Want a bite?”

“How very nice of you,” I said with an ostentatious English accent, and then leaned forward to bite the tip of the berry with a chomping sound.

She giggled and copied me with her own monster sound.

“Lucien told me that you walk around at night.” Lavender picked up my teacup and held it with her pinkie sticking up. “Do you have bad dreams?”

I did walk the halls at night. My nightmares were getting worse since I got here and I didn’t like to stay in my room brooding.

“Did I wake you?” I asked.

“No. But Lucien doesn’t sleep, so he saw you.” Lavender took a sip, frowned, and put the cup down. “I have bad dreams, too, sometimes.”

I put elbows on the table and rested my chin on my fists, watching her fiddle with the tea and sugar. “You do, huh?”

She nodded.

“You can come visit me if you want.” She proceeded to fill her teacup almost halfway with sugar.

I winced. “What do you dream about?”

She stopped stirring, and stared at me, her eyes narrowing. Then, apparently deciding something, she glanced sideways at Davenport, and leaned in.

I did the same, our faces close over the table.

“My mommy falling,” she said, and the tears rimming her eyes made my heart ache.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie.” I swallowed hard. “That’s really tough.”

“Maybe if you’re walking around at night…” She hesitated and then leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “Never mind.”

I bit my lip, blinking back the burn of tears.

“Maybe I can come and visit you if I have a nightmare?” I said. “You know, so I won’t be scared. We can go and steal ice cream from the kitchen.”

“Well, if it means you won’t be scared.” A smile spread across her face, and there were dimples in both pink cheeks.

“So I won’t be scared,” I repeated.

Mrs. Tuttle’s voice sounded, calling for Lavender.

In a flash, the girl was off in the other direction, hair flying as she ran through trees. Her giggle floated back.

That night, ensconced in my room after my last check on Davenport, I sat at the desk with a pen. I held it with a shaking hand over the stationery.

Why was this so hard?

I thought of Lavender and how tragically she’d lost her mother.

“It’s not too late, Rose,” I whispered to myself. “Just write the first word.”

I didn’t know where to start or what to say. I closed my eyes, the memories of the trial and the crowd muttering behind us as I walked to the front of the courtroom.

Her face, tight and pained where she sat near my father and his defense team, as I raised my right hand and looked at her over the bailiff’s shoulder. She wouldn’t look at me. Hadn’t spoken to me since the day my father was convicted.

I stared down at the letter, the first two words all I could pull from the silence of our standoff. A ragged breath tore from my chest, and I grabbed the paper, crumpling it in my hand. I held my fist to my mouth, pushing back the sobs that threatened to pour out of me.

For six months now, my mother and extended family behaved as if I didn’t exist. Had enough time passed to soften hearts, to repair severed ties?

“Maybe tomorrow, Lord,” I breathed. “Maybe I can tomorrow.”

8

Saturday morning, my day off, I stood at the kitchen sink eating a bowl of granola and looking out at the woods. Fatigue made me feel slower than normal. I wasn’t getting any sleep. I walked the halls last night and thought I heard muffled sobbing. When I found Lavender’s room, I peeked in. She was fast asleep. I listened at her door for almost ten minutes, but the sobbing or whatever it was, had stopped.

I heard O’Shay’s shuffling gait behind me and turned as he came in. “You’re up early.”

“Morning,” I said.

“We have a table,” he grumped and took a teacup from the tray on the counter, poured himself a cup, and sat on the chair nearest the door. “You eat like a bachelor.”