The Rose Master (7 page)

“No accounting for taste,” I muttered.

I left the strange dining room and was heading back to the kitchen when I heard a muffled crash. The noise came from the second story.
 

Instinctively, my feet headed toward the sound. I felt like I should do something; maybe Lord Grey was injured and in need of assistance. I crossed the room, walking toward the glimmer of the stairs.

“Where are you going, Anne?” Ms. Simple’s voice echoed through the room.

I turned to face her. “I thought I heard something. A crash, from upstairs.”

Her eyes flickered up the staircase, and I saw her chest move in time with her quickening breath. There was something about her reaction I did not like.

“Shouldn’t we go check what happened?” I asked.

Ms. Simple cleared her throat and her gaze slipped to the floor for a few seconds. “No, it’s all right. I’m sure it was nothing.”

“But it was so loud.”

“It’s an old house, things fall and break on a daily basis. I’ll see to it later.”

“I could easily—”

“Come, Anne, Dora changed her mind. It seems the onions are besting her today. She’s close to shriveling up after chopping just three of them.”

I turned to look at the stairs again, up to where the noise had come from. Ms. Simple was probably right—just an old house stretching and dropping things.

“Yes, of course, I’ll help her.”

“There’s a good girl.”

She waited until I passed in front of her, then, stepping behind me, led me to the kitchen.

Dinner that night was an awkward affair. It was the four of us: Dora, Ms. Simple, Mr. Keery, and myself. We sat down at the kitchen table and began our meal with a prayer.

I was shocked by the leisure of the entire thing—no one rushed to pour out the stew, and no one slurped it down in anticipation of being called back to work. I was the first one finished, since I was unable to halt the habit of mindless determination toward one goal: get nourished quickly. Ms. Simple watched as I spooned undercooked vegetables into my mouth while she sipped at her broth. She smiled.

“No need to choke yourself. There’s no hurry.”

I looked at my companions, at their bowls, which were all more than half-full, and then at my own, which was a spoonful away from empty. I felt myself blush.

“I’m sorry. I’m so accustomed to having to hurry during mealtimes.”

Ms. Simple nodded. “Yes, well, you won’t be disturbed here. Eat at your own pace. We all do.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, thinking of how to word my next question.

“Ms. Simple, I’m sorry, but I did not see you set the dining room for Lord Grey’s dinner. I wanted to watch you so that I would know how he prefers it.”

As Ms. Simple reached for a slice of bread, her gown’s collar pulled away from her throat and revealed a necklace of colors on her skin, deep purples and sickly yellows. Bruises. I frowned. They looked just like Dora’s.

Ms. Simple’s voice yanked my eyes back to her face. “Lord Grey eats erratically, which means whenever it pleases him, if at all. He does not encourage our disturbing him for such trivial matters as meals.” She kept her eyes on the spoon in front of her.

“So, he calls to you when he is ready to dine?”

Ms. Simple shook her head. “No, we leave a covered plate on the dining table for him. He may come down whenever it’s best for him.”

This was most unusual. The master of a manor, a Lord, tending to his own meals? I peered at Mr. Keery, but he was concentrating on the stew before him, his face enveloped in a spider web of steam.

As soon as we were all done, I offered to help wash dishes in the hope of learning a bit more about our enigmatic employer.

I plunged my hands into the layer of soap that floated on the water, and grasped the disintegrating sponge. I began washing the bowls. Dora was quiet beside me, but I could feel her eyes turning to me every few seconds, just waiting for me to speak. I took the bait.

“What is Lord Grey like?” I asked. “He sounds so . . . different from regular Lords.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I’ve only had him and his father as employers, so I don’t know if they are normal or not.”

“How long has he been the master?”

“Our current Lord Grey took over the manor a few years ago, I think about five, after his father drowned in the fountain. Have you seen it?”

I shook my head.

“It was horrible. His son found him, all bloated.” She shuddered.

“That must have been terrible for him.” In truth, I was not too fond of water, so the thought of someone loosing life in that element struck deep.

“I suppose. But if the young Lord was devastated, he did not show it. He’s always been a strange one, and when his father died . . . well. He’s an only child, so all the wealth was passed down to him, and we were all afraid he’d sell the estate and leave us out of work. He is not a man of many words, but that night, he called us into the parlor and reassured us no one would be dismissed. He’s not left the manor since.”

“He’s not left in five years?” I gasped out.

Dora scraped a bowl against a pair of knives and the sound stabbed through me. She shrugged. “He has no apparent need to leave. He spends most of his time in his private rooms.”

“What does he do there all day?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. We are not allowed to enter, not even to tidy up. No one has seen his chamber in years.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Not really. He brings out his bed linens when they need a good washing, as well as his chamber pot.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

Dora laughed, a gurgling sound. “It is unusual. Not even his father did that.”

“What else do you know about him?” I asked.

“He is a secretive man, always has been. I used to see a lot of him in the past, mostly when Miss Bellingham came around to the manor, but I haven’t seen him much in recent years.”

“Miss Bellingham? Who was she?”

“Lily Bellingham. I don’t know much about her. I hadn’t been moved up from floor scrubber at that time, so I had little contact with guests. I did see her once, though. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on, and from the frequency of her visits, I gathered the master thought the same.”

“Oh, I see.”

I turned to Dora and caught a sideways glance I could make nothing of. There was an expectation on her face, like someone dipping a toe to test bathwater.

I frowned. “But, Dora, why did the rest of the household leave? If he’s so wealthy, then surely he could afford to maintain them all.”

She was silent for a heartbeat. Then, she put the towel down. “I have to go throw some of these ashes outside. Can you finish here?”

I nodded. Damn it. I gathered my thoughts together and finished washing and drying. I lingered a bit afterward, trailing about the different rooms, but as I saw no one else, I decided to turn in for the day.

I crossed the main hall and headed toward the servant quarters. I had a hold of my doorknob when a cold gust slithered between my feet. The coil rose up my body until every hair on my head seemed to crackle and coat over with ice. In a minute, my whole body was trembling.

What’s wrong with me?

I shook my head in angry jerks, forcing the nonsense out, and entered my room, which was, thank God Almighty, many degrees warmer. Soon, I was in bed and edging toward a traveler’s tired sleep, heady and hot-lidded.

Eight

Whatever internal device I possessed that had been trained to rouse me at the same hour each morning was not fooled by my change of scenery. I woke, as usual, at half past five to a room crystallized by cold. I could not hear anyone up yet, and I considered remaining in my cocoon of blankets a bit more.

I sighed and turned over, but my body was already alert. Fine. I ripped the covers off and stood in my nightdress that still retained wisps of body heat. I threw my cloak over my shoulders and, in a very unladylike manner, began to run and jump in place, warming my limbs up like molding clay.

Panting, I dressed in my simplest dress—opaque, dark blue with a number of wide pockets. I had no cap, and I couldn’t very well wear my bonnet the whole day unless I enjoyed slamming into walls, so I wrapped my hair into a tight bun and set off for the kitchen.

I moved past Dora’s room, but saw no light outlining her door—no movement at all, in fact—which, of course, meant there would be nothing hot to drink in the kitchen. I shrugged and continued. Perhaps I would find dregs of juice or a slice of bread to chew on while I waited. I lit one dim lamp in the kitchen and looked in the pantry. I found a loaf of bread, not the newest nor the most charming I’d ever seen, but a hungry stomach is not prejudiced. I cut a slice and ate it standing up, my hand cupped under my mouth to catch crumbs.

My next quest was for cleaning supplies—the usual arsenal of brooms, dusters, cloths, rags, soap, and vinegar to dilute over the floors. I found the cloths and ragged flannel squares, as well as the vinegar and the broom, but there was not a single duster in sight. Not knowing the manor well enough, I didn’t want to go about opening doors. I would have to wait for Ms. Simple to point me the right way.

In ordinary circumstances, I would have needed to be given instructions for the day, a list of chores that I had to follow, but since this manor was not even in the same vicinity as “regular circumstances,” I did not think anyone would mind if I took matters into my own capable hands. As I’d planned the day before, I headed to the sitting room to begin.

The winter dawn was just tapping on the windows, giving the room an eerier look than on the previous afternoon. The white sheets seemed to glow, to have life. I frowned and yanked the first sheet off. The urge to sneeze gripped my throat, and I pinched my nose to wait for it to pass.

The revealed armchair was quite beautiful, a matching set to the dark pieces I’d seen the day before. I traced the pale, yellow designs on the cushion; most likely gold thread.

I moved through the room, snatching every sheet off until they were all piled up in one corner, a great mound of cotton snow. Much better. The wooden chair and sofa limbs were dull with age, but if I’d had my proper supplies, I would have scrubbed them back to what I knew would be sparkling life. Unfortunately, the most I could settle for was to wipe them with a moist cloth.

I started with the largest piece, the sofa, and worked clockwise around the room. I allowed my hands to take over, to explore and get acquainted with the grain of the wood, the curve of the legs, the delicate carvings that required steady hands and careful care. And, as always happened while I cleaned, my thoughts stilled and quieted.

Minutes passed in absolute silence, internal and external, before my right hand came across an anomaly on one of the armchairs. I found my fingers hesitating over a corner of the wooden panel. Four deep gashes carved into the chair in almost perfect slices, done with only the sharpest of objects. For some reason, I did not want to touch them again, nor even look at them if I could avoid it.

This is silly, Anne
, I told myself.
You’re going to have to touch this chair for many years to come, so better get used to it.

Perhaps, but I didn’t have to do it right that minute. I moved back and turned to the last bit of furniture—a side table. As I shifted my head, I heard a soft chuckle, hoarse and deep. I stood still and held my breath, but I could not hear anything else. My heart was pounding all along my ribcage as I turned around to face whoever was in the room.