The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (3 page)

Just as she was about to knock again, the latch depressed. Pushing down a thrill of excitement and fear, she stepped back, smoothing her hair and jacket.

A handsome man in a well-tailored charcoal suit and cobalt blue tie peered out at her. “May I help you?” His voice was like butter, his British accent seductive.

“Um, Mr. Uh, Raven?”
Oh, God, I can’t believe I said that! He’ll never hire me now. Unless his name really is Mr. Raven.
She felt herself blushing.

The man smiled revealing boyish dimples that flattered his green eyes and brush-cut sandy hair. “Mr. Raven is in the parlor with the dagger,” he said. “Would you be Miss Moorland?”

“Belinda. Yes. That’s me. I mean I’m she.”

“A little nervous?” His eyes were so kind she could’ve fallen into them.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. Ravencrest is very intimidating, at least until you get to know her. I’m the one who should apologize. My name is Grant Phister. I’m Mr. Manning’s butler.” He smiled again and moved aside. “Won’t you come in?”
 

She stepped inside and looked around, trying to keep her jaw from dropping. The entry hall alone was at least six or eight times the size of her little apartment. The floor, gleaming white marble tile accented by small black diamonds, seemed to go on forever before reaching a broad staircase leading to a long second floor landing. From behind her, the sun shone through the sidelights, casting dancing prisms across the floor and cream-colored walls. Above, a crystal chandelier hung from a ceiling that must have been two dozen feet high. It illuminated a broad arc of hall ahead of her, the light fading just as another chandelier took over, then several more after that before reaching the stairs. The only dark shadows lay at the hall’s edges, leaving a series of heavy arched doorways in blackness on either side.

Decor was sparse and elegant, beginning with a gilded hat-and-coat stand and umbrella rack, then continuing into the room to narrow, walnut-legged, marble-topped side tables, bracketed by dark wood chairs, their backs carved into intricate spider web designs, their seats upholstered in white fabric that shone like ice. Above each table hung a portrait of some long-dead personage. They appeared to go back several centuries and she wondered who they were.

“Those are Mr. Manning’s ancestors,” the butler said, reading her mind. Though still kind, his eyes now had a mysterious twinkle, and Belinda found herself wondering what kinds of secrets this man kept. “This way, please.”

He led her to the last arched doorway on the left. Up close, it was even more imposing, edged in thick white-painted stone as if it were the entrance to a dungeon. “Pardon me.” Mr. Phister stepped ahead of her and an instant later, light bloomed from a glittering chandelier inside the room. It illuminated similar furniture - white upholstery over darkness. Portraits of bleak landscapes dotted the walls.

Tall windows were draped in funereal black velvet, forbidding sunlight. She wanted to open them and, as if reading her mind once again, Grant Phister crossed the marble expanse and drew them. Brilliant daylight brought her attention to the scuffs on her shoes. With as much subtlety as possible, she rubbed the toe of one shoe against the back of her calf, then the other.
That’s a little better.
If the butler noticed, he was kind enough not to say so.

“Please, Miss Moorland, do have a seat.” He gestured at a white settee and matching chairs gathered around a coffee table on a white area rug.

“Thanks. Call me Belinda.”

“I will, if you’ll call me Grant.”

For the first time, Belinda felt like she could breathe. If all the staff were this nice, she would really like to work here. “Thanks, Grant.”

He smiled. “And now, I must ask you to brace yourself, Belinda, because I have to fetch Mrs. Heller to begin your interview.”

“Mrs. Heller?”

“Mr. Manning’s head gargoyle. But never, ever call her that if you want to remain intact.” His eyes danced.

“What?” She tried not to smile.

“She’s rather touchy. She calls herself the house administrator. Refer to her that way. It’s a better epithet.” He walked toward the entry. “At least when she’s present.”

“Grant?”

“Yes, Belinda?”

“Should I be afraid?”

“No. Just cool and cautious. You need to get past her to meet Mr. Manning himself. Don’t give her anything to latch on-”

“Mr. Phister! You may leave now.” The stern new voice could only belong to a woman named Heller or, perhaps, Satan.

“Thank you.” He glanced back at Belinda and gave her a conspiratorial wink.

Mrs. Heller was a tall, lithe figure in an elegant black skirted-suit. An ornate silver skeleton key hung around her neck. Two gemstones glinted, owl-like, on the key head, the small twin rubies and her matching lips being the only relief from the black and whiteness of her, unless you counted the faint hint of gold in the platinum blond hair that curled just under her firm jaw. She glanced at the windows, clucked disgust, and crossed to close the drapes with a decisive
snap
.

She turned to Belinda and paused, her posture as stiff and straight as a guard at Buckingham Palace. Her eyes flashed like onyx under arched brows as Belinda stood to greet her. “How do you do?” she managed. “I’m Belinda … Belinda Moorland.” She offered her hand.

Finally, the woman stepped closer. “Mrs. Cordelia Heller. I run this household.” Belinda’s hand was encased in iron and ice. A flash of fire, like an electric shock, passed between their hands. Mrs. Heller gasped. Dropping the hand as if it were a hot coal, she pinned Belinda in her gaze. “You’re here to interview for the job of governess.”

“Y-Yes. Yes I am.” Belinda rubbed her hand, still hot and buzzing, on her skirt.

“Please resume sitting, Miss Moorland.” Her red lips were set in a firm line.

“Belinda.”

“Miss Moorland, we are very proper in this house. The master demands it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No harm done.” Mrs. Heller thumbed through pages on a clipboard that Belinda hadn’t noticed until now. Her long fingers, tipped in black lacquer, moved quickly. “Your
 
résumé
 
says you have a degree in elementary education.” She paused, looking up at Belinda with the cold eyes of a pit viper.

“Yes,” said Belinda.

“And …” She brought the clipboard closer to her face. “Theater?” She practically spat the word.

Belinda nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Heller. That’s correct.”

“Yet, I don’t see any actual history of working with children.”

Belinda swallowed. “N-no,” she said. “But I do love them and have always wanted the opportunity to teach. I’m hard-working and dependable.”

Heller’s eyes slithered over Belinda, beginning at her shoes and snaking up her body before settling on her face. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure you are.”

Belinda felt like a stain on the carpet under that harsh gaze.

“Moorland,” said Heller. “That’s an … unusual name. What is your heritage?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your heritage. What
are
you?”

“I- uh, I’m a mix of things, really. Mostly English, I believe.”
I can’t believe she asked me that. I can’t believe I answered!

“Hmm.
Mostly
.” Mrs. Heller flipped a page on her clipboard. “Are you married?”

“No, but I don’t see-”

“I ask you this, Miss Moorland, because you will be residing here at Ravencrest if I choose you for the position. Your marital status is something which
must
be considered.”

“I’m single.”

Heller wrote something on the page in front of her.

“And are you sexually active?”

Belinda’s cheeks flushed and her jaw tightened. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” Her voice quaked.

“I beg your pardon, young lady. It certainly
is
my business if you intend to bring strange young men to Ravencrest.” Mrs. Heller stood, a straight-backed slash of black. “You see, Miss Moorland, as head of this household-”

“Head of the household, Mrs. Heller?” A new voice, male and deeper than Mr. Phister’s, cut Heller short.

Standing in the high-arched doorway was a broad-shouldered man in a well-tailored dark blue suit.

Mrs. Heller raised a pale hand to her throat. “Mr. Manning,” she said, her voice several notes higher. “You startled me.”

Annoyance dragged at the corners of the man’s mouth. “I’m sure I did,” he said. “I think I’ll finish conducting this interview myself if you don’t mind.” He raised his dark eyebrows and Belinda was pinned by intense, steely-blue eyes.

“Very well.” said Mrs. Heller. “Why should I mind.” It wasn’t a question.

Belinda heard herself swallow.

Despite her already porcelain complexion, she noticed Mrs. Heller’s knuckles whiten around the clipboard. There was a slight tremble in the woman’s hands - not fear, she thought, but rage.

Mr. Manning stepped into the room. “Miss Moorland, please accompany me to my office.”
 

She stood on unsteady legs, uncertain whether she wanted to follow him or bring the interview to an end. Mr. Manning smiled. It was a nice addition to his handsome features and it convinced Belinda to stay.

“Come with me.” Turning to Mrs. Heller, he said, “I believe there are some carpets in the dining hall that could use your attention.”

As she left the room, Belinda saw the other woman’s onyx eyes blaze. “I’ll inform housekeeping,” she said in an even clipped tone.

At the foot of the vast staircase, Mr. Manning stepped aside and motioned Belinda forward. “After you, Miss Moorland.”

She placed a still-trembling hand on the elaborate ebony baluster, and started up the steps. Midway, her heel caught and she found herself fighting for balance. A firm hand gripped her waist from behind. “Steady,” said Mr. Manning. “We don’t need any accidents straight away, do we?” For the first time, she detected a mild British accent.

She smiled despite her embarrassment. “Thank you.”

They arrived at the main landing and it was such a different sight - had such a different feel - that she forgot to move.

Mr. Manning cleared his throat.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She stepped onto the landing, onto plush blue carpeting. The walls were still white, but a creamier, more welcoming shade. The single side table at the middle of the landing held a ruby vase filled with yellow and blue flowers and the paintings on the walls were modern. Her eyes landed on one. “Rafuse,” she said. “
Poppies
.”

“Poppies,” he repeated. “Yes. Not the famous print, though. Do you see the difference?”

She studied the brilliant red flowers. “There’s one less poppy.”

His smile betrayed his pleasure. “Yes. It’s an original. He gave me a special deal.”

“It’s lovely. My favorite.” She’d had a copy of
Poppies
on her dorm wall for a time. She glanced at him, saw the delight in his eyes, and felt a little tummy-flip.

“It brims with life. I like to keep the landing’s art appropriate for all tastes. My clients occasionally enter this way. They don’t always find the business entrance on the side.”
 

“Business?”
 

“Yes. The second floor of the east wing is given over to my business.” He pointed in the other direction. “My personal office is the second door down on the left. West wing. Shall we?”

He began walking and she picked up the scent of his cologne. It spoke of the ocean and the forested cliffs above. She’d never smelled anything quite like it and something about it excited her.
Maybe it’s because he’s wearing it.

“What’s-”

“Yes?”

She realized it wasn’t appropriate to ask the brand of his cologne during a job interview. “Never mind,” she said.
 

“Here we are. Allow me.” He reached past her and punched a code into the little keypad above the knob. The lock
snicked
and he pushed the door open.

The office was roomy and bright. Near the door was a blue couch several shades lighter than the carpeting. Next to it was a low glass side table holding a flowered enamel bowl full of chocolate kisses. On the far side of the door, barely noticeable against the creamy wall, was an air hockey game.

The room’s centerpiece, a big wooden desk, was clean of line and stained in a warm golden shade. A big leather desk chair lurked behind it and two comfortable-looking guest chairs fronted it. A bookcase filled the wall beyond the massive furniture and a happy-looking rubber plant, at least six feet tall, stood in the nearby corner beneath its own grow lamp. To the side, brilliant tropical fish swam lazily in a long aquarium.

The air, moving gently, smelled fresh and held a hint of his earthy cologne.

“Have a seat.” He moved behind his desk and sat down while she took a chair facing him. A little fear returned, but not too much.

“Where are my manners?” Mr. Manning said. “Would you care for a cup of tea or coffee? Or perhaps a Kiss?”

“Uh, I-” Her cheeks flushed.

“Chocolate, Miss Moorland. A chocolate Kiss. Over there, on the table.” He pointed at the enamel bowl.

“Oh, no, no thank you. But thank you.”
God I sound like an idiot!

“I’m sorry about Mrs. Heller,” he was saying. “Rest assured, she is not the head of this household. That is my position.”

“I understand. If I qualify for this job, would I be working under her?”

He sat back and studied her. “No, you would work directly for me, though you would have to interact with her occasionally. Mrs. Heller is simply my administrative assistant; she’s in charge of payroll and other administrative duties involved in running such a large home as Ravencrest. She administers our employee insurance plans, pays the bills, and checks over expense and credit accounts for me. Outside contractors. Things like that. I assure you, she is good at what she does.”

“I’m sure.”
Administrative assistant? She’s his secretary?

Mr. Manning was still, his eyes never leaving Belinda’s face. She felt herself melt a little as he studied her and wondered how she appeared to him. She was glad she’d stopped by home to freshen up. After several moments, she became uncomfortable and shifted in her seat.