Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 16

September 15, 1846, Portsmouth, Rhode Island

The history of Whimbrel House was so obscure it took Merritt two hours to find the records he sought, which included colonial census records, deed records, and recorded deaths from the Salem witch trials, since the latter had been mentioned in Hulda’s file. Still, he cautioned himself not to be too optimistic. Records that old were often spotty, with gaps in the timeline, and the Narragansett Bay tended to be lumped together as a whole without individual islands, when it was bothered to be mentioned apart from Rhode Island itself.

Merritt would have called it a successful enough day, but someone very official looking stopped him on his way out to tell him he couldn’t just take the records. If he wanted the information, he would have to copy them by hand.

Damnation. “You don’t have a secretary on lend, do you?”

The official-looking person merely raised an eyebrow and walked away, glancing back to make sure Merritt didn’t make a run for it with the pages. Which he considered, but the man had long legs and could probably outrun him. So with a sigh, Merritt took up a seat by a window and laid out the paperwork. He could already feel the muscle beneath his right thumb cramping.

He started with the census, recording the names of anyone who might have lived in the home. The last fifty years were much clearer, and a surge of nostalgia nestled in his bones at the sight of his grandmother’s name. An affidavit said she’d won it in a card game.

I didn’t think she gambled, Merritt thought with a frown. But there it was in writing.

It was less than comfortable in the city building, so Merritt cracked open the nearest window. He was halfway through the deeds list when he found himself staring down at the city, watching people pass by, taking in the shapes of the surrounding architecture.

His thoughts floated back to Hulda. To the terror that had earlier flashed in her eyes. In that moment she’d seemed . . . younger. Vulnerable. She’d acted like a completely different person on the way to the tram. Quiet. Contemplative. Withdrawn.

An old employer. He tapped his pencil against the side of his nose. In prison? Did he have something to do with BIKER? In truth, Merritt knew not a lick about Hulda outside of her profession, except perhaps that she had poor vision and was tidy enough to put a monk to shame. It irked him. He wanted to help, somehow. He wanted to know what ailed her.

“And you’ll not find out until you finish this.” Merritt glanced at the stack with a sigh. Jotted down another name and another set of dates. By the time he finished the paper, he had to shake feeling back into his hand. He really should learn shorthand.

He moved to the next paper, eyeing the stack with distaste. He should have brought Beth along. She would have fit in the boat . . . if she sat in his lap, perhaps. But that would only create different problems.

Groaning, Merritt leaned his chin into his hand and stared out the window, the faint sound of clopping horse hooves wafting in on the autumn breeze. A woman walked by pushing a pram, followed by a group of adolescents with their heads pushed together, hair stuffed under caps and laughter on their lips. Going the opposite way was a melancholy fellow, shoulders hunched, lips downturned, hole over the left knee of his trousers.

Merritt got an idea. “Hey! Hey, you!”

The man paused and glanced around, taking a few seconds to find the window.

Merritt waved. “I need help scribing something in here, and it’s going to take me until midnight if I do it on my own. Can you write?”

The man hesitantly nodded.

“I’ll pay you.”

The man considered for a moment. Pointed ahead, toward the closest doors. Merritt nodded, and the fellow left, appearing minutes later in the vast records room. He was much taller and broader than he’d appeared out the window.

Merritt waved him over, then shook his hand. “Thank you, my good chum. I need to make copies of all of this.” He moved the stack between them as the stranger sat down. “Merritt Fernsby. What’s your name?”

“Baptiste,” he said, the name spoken in a heavy French accent.

Worried perhaps that he’d called over someone who was only literate in a foreign language, Merritt pressed, “Where are you from, Baptiste? What brings you to Portsmouth?”

Baptiste bent his neck one way, then the other, and it popped loudly. “I am from Nice in France. Been here three months. Had bad luck back home.” He shrugged.

Relieved, Merritt said, “Well, hopefully this is good luck today. You take this half”—he handed him several papers—“and I’ll take this half.” He pulled a second pencil from his shirt pocket. “The quicker and neater you copy them, the more I’ll compensate you. Sound fair?”

Baptiste nodded and got to work. His handwriting wasn’t perfect, but it was legible, so Merritt set to copying his own papers, drawing out the forks of genealogy and squinting to read smudged names along the tines. He was on his third page when he said, “What do you do for a living?”

Baptiste didn’t look up from his work. “Nothing now. Everyone says go farther north for job, but I do not want to work on the railroad or in the steel plants.”

“You certainly have the arms for it.”

Baptiste merely shrugged and crossed a T. “But I do not want to go south, either. I do not like it down there.”

“There’s lots of work to be had—”

“I do not like it.” His tone was final, so Merritt didn’t push him. He could easily guess why a person might not want to cross that carefully sketched line that divided the United States.

Merritt copied down another name. “What did you do in France?”

Baptiste sighed, like a long story had disintegrated up his throat and puffed out of him, unintelligible. “I was chef.”

Merritt slammed down his pencil, startling the large man. “No! You’re joking.”

Baptiste finally looked up, his wide forehead wrinkled. “Being chef is funny here?”

“No, not that. I need a chef!” He clapped his hands. “Hulda has been positively pestering me to hire one, and here you are!”

Baptiste leaned away, skeptical, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Who is this woman? Your wife?”

Merritt laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, no. She’s my housekeeper. Or rather, she’s someone else’s housekeeper but is tending my house on their behalf . . . it’s complicated.”

Baptiste glanced at the documents, then back up. “You need chef?”

Merritt grinned. “Baptiste, do you believe in ghosts?”

That forehead crinkled even further. “. . . No?”

“Excellent.” He slapped the man on the shoulder. “Consider yourself hired.”

Hulda returned to Whimbrel House late; the small fishing boat she’d hired to take her out to the island dropped her off as dusk was starting to settle and the lighthouses sprang to life. There was enough light for her to slip past leathery grape fern and multiflora roses. A path was already starting to form in the long grass, making the way easier. Drawing a deep breath, Hulda absorbed the sweet scent of chrysanthemum and let it fill her, easing the tension of the day. One thing at a time, she reminded herself. Only worry about yourself. It was advice she had to inculcate often, as she frequently wished she could take control of others’ lives for a little while, if only to make the world a more organized place.

As for Silas Hogwood . . . she would do as Myra recommended and sleep on it.

Lifting her skirts, she stepped onto the porch and opened the front door—unlocked, but who else was going to let themselves in? And promptly screamed.

There was a large heathenish man in the reception hall.

He also yelped and nearly dropped a barrel he was carrying on his shoulder. Before Hulda could think to fight or flee, Miss Taylor dashed into the room, both hands reaching toward her. “It’s okay, Mrs. Larkin! He’s the new chef!”

Hulda clutched the doorframe, waiting for her heart to calm down. Her eyes darted from the large, dark-haired man to Miss Taylor. “I haven’t put in for a chef!”

“Mr. Fernsby hired him.” Miss Taylor moved slowly toward her, like she was a startled deer. “Met him in Portsmouth.”

“I hear that Mrs. Larkin is home!” Mr. Fernsby called from upstairs.

The large man set down the barrel and bowed slightly at the waist. “My name is Baptiste Babineaux,” he said in a thick French accent. Straightening, he glanced around, stiff as the wall itself. “I will go to kitchen now.”

Hefting the barrel, he passed into the dining room. The portrait on the wall craned to watch him go, apparently just as curious as Hulda was.

Mr. Fernsby came down the stairs, grabbing the rail tightly as the steps suddenly resized themselves. “Welcome home! Find anything useful?”

Clutching her bag, Hulda stepped in and kicked the door shut behind her. “I thought I was in charge of the hiring?”

“I took initiative! Aren’t you proud?” He grinned and jumped the last few steps. “I needed help copying information at the city building, and Baptiste was short a few coins. Turns out he’s a chef! From France! Isn’t that something?”

Hulda crossed the reception hall to peek into the dining room, but Mr. Babineaux had already passed into the kitchen. Seemed the house was fine with him. “But accommodations—” She’d assumed the chef, if one was hired, would take up her room once she departed.

Miss Taylor whispered, “There’s a new room.”

She blinked. “What?”

“New room,” the maid repeated. “The house made him some space just off the kitchen.”

Hulda paused. “A house can’t simply make new space.”

Miss Taylor shrugged. “Our rooms are a little smaller now.”

So it had moved space. Hulda considered this for a moment. “I suppose that is fair.” Turning her attention to Mr. Fernsby, she asked, “Have you vetted him? Do you have his history?”

Mr. Fernsby shrugged. “He made a very good soup for dinner. He’s been in the States three months and wasn’t able to find work. I thought I’d give him a chance.”

Hulda softened. “I suppose that’s kind of you, Mr. Fernsby. We’ll have to see to it that he has what he needs. And I will interview him in the morning.”

Mr. Fernsby shrugged. “Do as you wish.”

Miss Taylor quietly excused herself and started up the stairs. The house didn’t challenge her.

Opening her bag, Hulda said, “I have a list of lighthouse workers for the bay, which might line up with previous owners and help us close in on an estimated build date.”

“As do I. And I copied as many genealogical charts as I could for potential matches.”

Hulda paused. “Oh. That’s good.” It had always been magical institutions that historically valued genealogy, but their research was useful for local government as well. “We can evaluate them in the morning. Unless you’d like to simply tell us who you are?” She directed the question to the ceiling.

The house didn’t respond. Perhaps it was busy haunting Mr. Babineaux.

Glancing over his shoulder, Mr. Fernsby stepped within whispering distance. “Are you all right? After that scare in Portsmouth?”

Hulda drew into herself. “Perfectly fine, Mr. Fernsby. I realized later that it could not possibly have been him—”

“Been who?”

She ruminated for a moment. “Mr. Silas Hogwood. He was my first client after I joined BIKER, and I ended up hiring on to his staff.” She stepped around him, to the stairs. Best to see exactly how the house had rearranged her things. “But it’s behind me now.”

“May I ask,” he added with a surprising hesitance, “what he was convicted of?”

Hulda’s hand squeezed the railing. No harm in answering, is there? “Misuse of magic, to put it simply. He was a very charismatic and diabolical man. His greed for power led him to do unspeakable things.”

Twisted bodies, dried out and folded like accordions. A wicked gleam in his eye. Hulda shook the images away.

When Mr. Fernsby didn’t respond, Hulda climbed her way up the stairs. She was nearly to the top when he called up to her. “Mrs. Larkin.”

She turned around. He’d come to the bottom of the steps. His usual mirth was absent from his face, rendering it long and stern.

“You’re safe here. I hope you know that,” he offered.

The reassurance pricked her chest. She nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Fernsby.”

She walked through the hall, the wizard in residence just missing her when he—or she—made the paint start falling in flashes of purple and yellow. She ducked into her room. It wasn’t particularly shrunken; Mr. Babineaux’s space had to be relatively small. Did he have a bed, or a pallet on the floor? She’d have to catalog the change in the morning.

Setting her bag on the bed, Hulda shook out her arms, forcing newly tense muscles to ease. She crossed to the small oval mirror on the wall, provided by herself, and peered into it. Took off her glasses, cleaned them on her skirt, and put them back on. Sleep on it, she reminded herself, and turned away, plucking hair pins from her scalp. She’d stopped at a street vendor before heading back into the Narragansett, but even then her appetite had been wanting. She needed some rest to clear her head.

With the last pin gone, Hulda shook out her hair, which fell a hand’s length below her shoulders—an adequate length for the styles that were currently in fashion. Hulda didn’t care much for fashion, but she did want to be presentable at all times, so she had to keep up with it to a degree. The mess was a third straight, a third wavy, and a third curly, from how it had been tucked and pressed. She pulled it back into a braid and crossed to the window, peering out. She couldn’t see much. Without city lights, the island got dark as pitch once the sun settled down, the bay around it illuminated only by lighthouses, none of which she could see out her window. A few streaks of dying plum twilight highlighted a passing swallow and a distant elm.

You’re safe here. Mr. Fernsby’s voice echoed in her thoughts. And she was, wasn’t she? Not even her family knew she was out in the middle of nowhere off the coast of Rhode Island; she hadn’t written to them yet. Something she should do . . . but perhaps without specifics, until she worked through this morning’s scare. The fewer people who could be compelled to provide that information, the better. Besides, there was no need to worry them. There were two men in the house now, as well, one of them more aware than he let on, one of them large enough to join the White House militia. Then again, the right spells could get around size and smarts.

Why would I not concern myself with you?

A smile tempted her. A prick stung her heart.

And almost immediately, mortification overwhelmed her.

“Oh no,” she muttered, stepping away from the window. Shaking out her hands. “No, Hulda, we are not doing this again.”

It was just a little spark, nothing important. But sparks led to embers led to flames, so it had to be snuffed now, before her heart again crumbled to ash.

Not only was it inappropriate to indulge in any sort of pining over a client, but Hulda . . . Hulda wasn’t made for pining. Not mutual pining, at least. Never in all her thirty-four years had any man, of any station or background, looked at her with any amount of sweetness. And when she got moon eyed over one or the other, it always ended in embarrassment, or heartbreak, or both. She had gotten rather numb to it after all this time, but a silly part of her still squeezed through now and then, and she loathed it more than anything else, including socks by the kitchen sink. A perk of being a consultant for BIKER rather than contracted staff—she usually didn’t stay around long enough to form any significant attachment.

Perhaps because Silas Hogwood was on her mind today, her thoughts drifted back to Stanley Lidgett, who had been his steward at Gorse End. Hulda had been only twenty-one at the time, still hopeful and perhaps a little desperate. Although twenty years her senior, Mr. Lidgett had carried himself well, bore a strong jaw, and worked with a logical effectiveness she’d admired. She recalled stupidly curling her hair every morning, cinching her corset a little tighter, always seeking him out to ask after his day or bring him his favorite tarts from the kitchen. Her affections were probably obvious to the man, and he’d addressed her with withering contempt after Mr. Hogwood’s arrest. Perhaps he’d known about the magical siphoning, perhaps not—regardless, he was fiercely loyal to his employer and very blatantly disgusted with Hulda.

He’d called her ugly, and a rat. She’d heard the first before. Never the second.

She’d sobbed the entire way back to the States.

Shortly after returning to her home country, she’d overheard another interest of hers mocking her mannerisms at a local restaurant. It was then she’d accepted her old-maid status. Once she resigned herself to it, she was able to focus on more important things, like her work. She’d stopped divining for herself. She’d stopped pinching her cheeks. Stopped adding lace to her dresses.

And she’d done very well for herself. Very well, indeed. She would greatly prefer to continue that trend.

Sitting on the edge of her mattress, Hulda set her spectacles on the side table and dropped her head into her hands. “It is good that you have a kind client,” she told herself, enunciating every word. “How very fortunate for you. And it will be equally good to sort out this business with the wizard so you can move on. Do your job, Hulda. No one wants anything else from you.”

Resolute with that plan, Hulda stripped off the day’s dress, washed her face, and blew out her candle. Sleep on it, she admonished.

Something crunched when she laid her head on her pillow. Confused, she reached up to find a small, gauzy parcel she hadn’t noticed before. Sitting up, she relit her candle and nearly cried.

There was a gauzy bag of lemon drops on her pillow, tied off with a yellow ribbon.

And only Mr. Fernsby could have left it.