Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 20

September 20, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt couldn’t wrap his head around how well things were going. Not just with the house, which had been kinder to him ever since he’d learned its name, but . . . Hulda.

The very thing that had made his own father throw him out, she’d barely batted an eye at.

He’d come to terms with it all—his disinheritance, the abandonment—or so he liked to think. He could go days without thinking about it, though when he did think about it, it stung like a fresh wasp bite. Ebba, especially. The disintegration of his world had revolved around her. Around their mistake. And yet Merritt had been determined to pick up the pieces, to marry her and raise their child together. To move on as a family. He’d proposed, she’d accepted, and train cars were slowly aligning on the track. So when she’d abandoned him, too—apparently with an empty womb—he’d been . . . shocked wasn’t a strong enough word for it. Words were his business, his trade, and still he wasn’t sure an adequate descriptor existed. She hadn’t even said goodbye. He’d found out from her parents. There’d been no note, no farewell, no explanation.

She’d left the ring. Fletcher had pawned it on Merritt’s behalf.

Merritt’s father had always viewed him with disdain, so his abandonment had seemed almost natural. But Ebba had loved him, or so he’d believed. And not knowing why she’d ripped him off like a coarse scab still haunted his dreams at night.

And yet.

Merritt sat at his desk, pen in hand, but had not written for several minutes. Twilight was descending, acclimating him to the darkness. He needed to light another candle, but something about the blank wall in front of him magnified the scattered thoughts he needed to sort through.

Finding that forgotten, mud-encased grave had struck a chord within him. A note that still rang, even now. He felt empathetic for a house, for the person within its walls that he couldn’t see, couldn’t really talk to. He felt connected to him, like they were two novels of the same series.

If Owein hadn’t reached into his soul so readily, he might not have told Hulda his story. Outside of Fletcher, he’d told no one. Fletcher’s family knew, of course, but not from Merritt’s mouth. And suddenly, thirteen years later, he’d vomited his shame and anguish onto his housekeeper, of all people. He’d truly thought she’d be offended. That he’d wake up this morning to see her bags packed, her replacement already notified.

Instead, she’d offered to wash his cravat and asked for his dinner recommendations.

She was a puzzle. So prim yet . . . utterly unruffled by his delinquencies. By his outcast status. In truth, he’d never met a woman like Hulda Larkin.

Who are you?

He’d been equally surprised by her willingness to talk about this Silas Hogwood. Merritt had a vivid imagination; it had felt as if he were standing beside her as she witnessed those horrors in her vision. The bodies. Surely that had to trouble a person. Surely not even someone as strong as Hulda could shake it off. He’d wanted, badly, to comfort her. To reassure her. If she hadn’t already done so, Merritt would have made his own inquiries regarding the man.

He heard her voice passing by his door with a second set of light footsteps that had to be Beth’s. “—not a bother. You’re smaller than I am; take the bath first. I’ll carry up the water. I need the exercise—”

Merritt wiped his hands down his face before resting his chin in his palms, trying not to let his thoughts wander to the bath. Corsets aside, Hulda was a well-shaped woman, and—

There was some rule against this, wasn’t there? Moon-eyeing your staff.

He groaned and leaned back in his chair, filling his eyes—and brain—with the shadowed wall in front of him. There had been plenty of nice women in his life. He’d taken a few to dinner, even. One had gotten awkward around him when she learned he had no family ties, but she’d been a snob, anyway, always wearing mountains of lace even on the hottest summer days. Then there was the mess with Fletcher’s sister, who’d turned him down outright, and he’d had to avoid her while living in the same house for months. The woman he’d fancied during his undercover employment at that steel factory had not been happy with him when his article put her job in jeopardy.

Sometimes he wondered if his father had placed a curse on him, stripping him of not only his past family, but any chance of a future one as well. He didn’t think about it much, but that was because he didn’t want to. He’d dug his graves for the loved ones torn away from him long ago, occasionally adding more soil to top them off.

His thoughts drifted back to Hulda. She was so rigid it was comical, but sometimes she softened, showing her humanity as if by accident. When she’d taken his cravat. When he’d mentioned Ebba, the girl he’d been ready to marry. When he’d told her she was safe.

He shook his head. No. She was his housekeeper. That would be awkward. And kindness did not equate interest. He was just letting his loneliness get the better of him.

Not that he was lonely.

“I need to work,” he growled, pulling a piece of paper in front of him. His characters were undercover with the local crime lords now, and Merritt needed to pull on that imagination of his since he had no desire to do firsthand research. He tapped his pen on the paper, leaving bleeding ink circles like unsightly moles across its face. He wrote, Elise, which was the name of his heroine. Thought for a moment, then added, Elise wasn’t fond of dressing like a man.

He could work with that.

A bubble appeared under the wallpaper of the bedroom, about the size of his head, and moved in lazy circles like some sort of sleepy demon trying to gain entrance.

“Don’t go spying on the girls, Owein,” Merritt murmured, redipping his pen. “Wouldn’t want your soul to rot out of this house, now would we?”

The bubble rippled and sunk as though disappointed. Leaning over, Merritt pet it like it were a cat, and the entire wall rippled.

“Help me out,” he said, grateful for the distraction. “If you ran an infamous crime ring, where would you want your headquarters to be? Is beneath the city too dank, or would you be out in the open, maybe in a gambling house?”

The wall pulsed twice.

“Gambling house it is.”

And he started writing.

Three days after she’d discovered Whimbrel House had a second source of magic, Hulda received a letter via windsource pigeon, which was a rather expensive mode of communication. It required specific spells of elemental magic—air, to enhance flight—and communion magic, which allowed the birds to receive instructions for delivery. In the Middle Ages, the method hadn’t been terribly pricey, but in the nineteenth century, it was hard to find people who possessed the right spells to enchant new birds. Thus the people who could accomplish it were paid lavishly for their services. But where there was no telegram or appropriately connected communion stones, this was the next best means of communicating quickly.

BIKER’s seal was on the letter, so Hulda opened it immediately.

Hulda,

How is everything going in the bay? I hope your health is still well and you’ve managed to figure out the possessor. Is Mr. Fernsby still insistent that he or she be expelled?

You may be happy to hear I’m reassigning you. To Boston, for now. There’s always work to be done at the main office. But our team in Nova Scotia is close to uncovering some interesting finds! I don’t think we’ve sent you there yet, have we? We can discuss in person.

Bring your receipts to Sadie; she’ll reimburse you and finalize your payroll.

Best,

Myra

Hulda’s stomach sunk into her pelvis.

She didn’t want to leave.

She liked Whimbrel House. She liked the island and the ocean air. She liked working with Miss Taylor and Mr. Babineaux. She liked Mr. Fernsby . . .

Pressing her lips together, she paced the length of her room twice before pulling out a parchment of her own. Her hands trembled as she gripped a pencil. Why were they trembling? She straightened her spine and glared at them, willing them to be reasonable. After a moment, they obeyed.

Myra,

Thank you for catching up with me. I’m sorry I haven’t sent you an update on the house; in truth, I thought I had more time. We did indeed learn the identity of the wizard. He’s a twelve-year-old lad named Owein Mansel. Mr. Fernsby determined not to exorcise him, so the house is maintaining its enchanted classification.

As there is no immediate need for me outside office work, I would like to request more time at Whimbrel House. You see, I’ve discovered there is a second source of magic but have not yet determined what. I expect it will prove challenging. Perhaps I will uncover something significant for BIKER or Mr. Fernsby. I will be sure to keep you apprised.

Sincerely,

Hulda

She folded up the paper, sealed it, and affixed it to the windsource pigeon. “Return where you started,” she commanded, and the bird ducked out the window and flew north on a sea-scented breeze.

Perhaps I’m being foolish. Truthfully, she didn’t really want to travel. She used to love it . . . yet the older she got, the more tiresome it became. And the thought of subjecting herself to menial paperwork in the office instead of being here, searching for the second source of Whimbrel House’s magic . . . she didn’t savor it. Perhaps she could hire on as a permanent housekeeper here for a while. Like she’d done in Gorse End. So long as she kept her professionalism in place.

“You can’t simply make a slide!” Merritt shouted from the hall. “You’re going to break my ankle next time! If you want a slide, make it before I start descending!”

She smiled. How long had it been since Owein had enjoyed good company?

How long had it been for her?

As she pulled away from the window, she noticed a figure in the corner of her eye and glanced back. Miss Taylor stood out there, staring northwest, unmoving. Curious, Hulda slipped out of her room, arriving at the stairs just as Merritt convinced Owein to turn them back into stairs.

He caught her eye and smiled, which made her stupid organs do stupid things that she ignored. He held out his hand to her. “Shall I escort you down this dangerous bluff? One never knows what might happen.”

She was about to rebuff him—it was almost automatic for her. But against better judgment, she decided to play along. “Of course, good sir. I have a great need for my ankles today.”

He grinned, and she grinned, and she let him take her hand.

It was only thirteen stairs to the main floor, but Hulda felt as though she’d run a mile.

Miss Taylor still hadn’t moved by the time Hulda reached her, standing about thirty paces out from the laundry line. The petite woman’s eyes were trained somewhere in the deep, grassy meadows of the island, or perhaps just off the visible coast. A breeze swept through, and Hulda noted both the strength of the sun and the quietness of the usual songbirds.

“Miss Taylor?” She approached gingerly. “Are you ill?”

Miss Taylor’s eyes snapped to her as though she’d been roused from a daydream. “Oh, sorry. No. I mean, yes, I’m fine.” Her gaze drifted back toward the shoreline. “Just thought I saw something queer.”

A faint chill crept up Hulda’s arms, despite their long sleeves. “What?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “A wolf. But there aren’t any wolves on the island, right?”

Rubbing at the uneasiness building in her sternum, Hulda said, “There shouldn’t be. Though I thought I saw one once before, too.”

A wolf in a library. Her magic had whispered that to her, too. But what does it mean?

“Perhaps we’ll send Mr. Babineaux out with the musket,” she murmured.

Miss Taylor shook her head. “I wouldn’t have seen it, I just . . . sensed something. Then it ran away, but not where any real wolf could run. Maybe it’s just the shadows.”

Hulda nodded. “But I think we’ll all feel better if we send a large French man out with a musket, nevertheless.” Mr. Fernsby certainly owns his share of firearms.

Miss Taylor chuckled. “I did want to ask you, Mrs. Larkin, about taking some time away.”

The hopeful glint in her eyes caught Hulda’s interest. “There’s always the possibility. What have you in mind?”

Suddenly shy, Miss Taylor looked away and pulled down her sleeves. “Well, I saw there was a dance in Portsmouth; some boys were passing out notes about it the last time I went to town to fetch supplies. I thought it might be fun to go. I don’t get much opportunity to socialize.”

“I can hardly fault you for that.” Hulda hadn’t been to a dance in . . . over ten years. Thirteen? Fourteen? She’d never felt at place in dance halls. Not because she didn’t know the steps, but because she spent most of her time occupying the wall. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You’ve certainly earned a night off. And do take the whole night, Miss Taylor. I don’t want you trying to navigate these waters in the dark. Do you need a recommendation for a boarding house?”

“My thanks, but I’ll be staying with a friend.” She smiled, though it looked to be more from nerves than humor. “Well, I don’t know how to dance, and I was wondering if you did.”

Hulda softened. “Do you need lessons?”

She nodded, eager. “I mean, I know how to dance, but not like they do in Portsmouth. No one danced like that in the South, I mean.”

“I’m happy to teach you. And perhaps you could teach me as well.” She moved to pull a shawl closer, only to realize she wasn’t wearing one. “Tonight after the men go to bed, hm? In my room.”

Miss Taylor beamed. “My thanks.”

Waving away the gratitude, Hulda merely said, “I could use the exercise.”

After dinner, while Mr. Fernsby enjoyed a game of cards with Mr. Babineaux, Hulda went upstairs to compile an official record of her attempts to categorize the house, as well as write up the symptom she believed indicative of a secondary source of magic. Symptom, singular, because she had yet to witness a repetition of the wardship spell, and she’d been testing the doors and windows often. Whatever the source, it was likely small, possibly wavering. Her best guess was a wooden beam or floorboard made from a tree that had absorbed magic during its lifetime. The inconsistency suggested it might be beginning to rot. She had yet to prove the theory correct, however, which rankled her. Seldom had she ever expended so much effort to diagnose an enchanted house, and this one wasn’t even particularly large.

Setting down her report, she worked her hands, rubbing growing cramps out of the muscles. Perhaps she should stay up tonight and see if the magic was more active after sundown. Miss Taylor would keep her company for a little while, with this dance practice of theirs, and afterward she could roam the house in her socks, padding around so as not to disturb anyone. She’d been sewing together some charms to tuck into out-of-the-way places in the hopes of finding the wayward spell, and with a little more work, she could be hanging them before dawn.

Deciding to document that undertaking as well, Hulda retrieved her pencil and began writing, only to have the tip snap on her second line. Sighing, she searched for the Lassimonne sharpener, but it wasn’t in its usual place. Likely Mr. Fernsby had taken it. Miss Taylor always put things where they belonged, and Mr. Babineaux never wandered upstairs.

Standing, Hulda stretched out her back as much as her corset would allow, then made her way down the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs, where Owein was twisting the carpet downward in the semblance of a whirlpool. Not to bother her, she thought, but because he was bored.

“Evening, Owein,” she said, and a narrow path of still carpet stretched across the way, allowing her passage. Nodding her thanks, she crossed the hall, stopping at Mr. Fernsby’s office. The door was ajar, the room half-illuminated by orange sunset. Lighting a candle atop a table by the door, Hulda ventured to the cluttered desk. There were three cups left there, along with a handkerchief, a smattering of pens and pencils, and a few crumpled pieces of paper, which were not cheap. She’d have to suggest a means of reusing them, for the backsides were perfectly functional. In truth, though, something about the mess was oddly endearing. Beside the crumpled papers sat a blue-jay feather, of all things, a single shoe without laces, a chunk of Mr. Fernsby’s manuscript, and, yes, the pencil sharpener.

She noticed his ink vial was depleted. Hard at work. She picked up the bottle and slipped back into the library, exchanging it for her own, and then set her mostly full vial beside his papers. As she picked up the sharpener, her candlelight spilled over his manuscript, illuminating, But a creaking in the dark told Elise she was no longer alone, on the topmost manuscript page.

Hulda paused. This was not the first page of the book—where that was, only Mr. Fernsby might know. This was midchapter, with a handwritten 102 on the top of the sheet. It was fascinating that a person could just sit down and write an entire novel. That all of these words, and the pictures they painted, had only existed inside his head before he put them to paper. That he could create something from nothing.

She held the candle closer. She feared to speak; the dark corridor carried sound, so much so she swore she heard echoes of her own breath. She waited, back pressed to the wall, until the creaking happened again.

“You said they wouldn’t look down here.” Her voice was barely perceptible. It had to be. Without light, Warren couldn’t read her lips.

His response was close enough to her ear to make her jump. Anywhere else, she’d have been embarrassed by the close proximity. But here in enemy territory, it was a comfort. “Don’t move.”

Hulda lowered herself into the vacant chair. He was rather good, wasn’t he? She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—if the man made a living off his words, of course he had to be good. She found herself wondering about his first published novel and whether she’d be able to locate and read it. But curiosity gripped her about what was causing the creaking in the darkened corridor, and why these people—Elise and Warren—were there to begin with.

Setting down the candle, Hulda tilted the page toward the light and read to its end, which was midsentence, so she put that page aside and picked up the next. Apparently these two were in a crime lord’s lair. Was this the same woman who’d witnessed the robbery Mr. Fernsby had mentioned earlier? Who was the man?

She flipped to the third page. Exhaled sharply. They weren’t alone. Someone else was down there. Someone who smelled of figurado cigar smoke, which was written like it meant something. Hulda guessed if she’d read earlier pages, she’d know exactly who was following the protagonists, and she had a feeling he wasn’t a man of exemplary character.

She turned the page, holding her breath along with Elise as she and Warren ducked into a closet. The man was coming closer. Elise reached for the closet door, but Warren held her back. She squeezed his arm, reassuring him. What did she intend to do?

Good heavens, now she was running out into the hallway in a different direction to distract the cigar man! Hulda turned the page. It was working. He was giving chase. But where would Elise go to escape him?

The same stench from before assaulted her—rot and feces, underlined with old urine. This time she turned toward it, her shoe catching on a divot in the flooring, which nearly sent her toppling. Was that running water? If the canal ran through here, she might be able to escape. Lord knew what diseases she’d picked up along the way, but better a disease than a bullet to the—

“Mrs. Larkin.”

Hulda screamed and jumped in the chair, coming very close to ramming her crown into Mr. Fernsby’s chin. Her hand rushed to cover her galloping heart. “Merritt, do not creep up on me in such a manner!”

Merritt—Mr. Fernsby . . . goodness, she hadn’t called him by his first name, had she?—grinned like a lethargic crocodile and folded his arms. “I did not creep in the slightest. You were merely preoccupied.”

She glanced to the book and felt her entire body heat. She’d just been caught snooping through his manuscript. “I-I apologize.” She simultaneously rose to her feet and slapped the papers back onto their proper stack, but the movement was so emphatic she knocked her spectacles off her nose. They clattered to the floor. “I was coming in for the pencil sharpener and got distracted. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Mr. Fernsby bent over to pick up the spectacles from the blur of the carpet. “Most people start books from the beginning.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Mrs. Larkin.” He reached forward and set her spectacles upon her nose himself, causing her to flush even more. God help me, please let the dimness hide it. But surely his knuckles felt the heat as they brushed her temples. “I am not and will never be upset when someone loses themselves in something I’ve drafted. Especially considering it’s only a draft. Stories are always terrible as drafts.”

Stepping away, she smoothed back her hair. “I did not think it terrible. And in my defense, the beginning of the book was not here.”

“I dare say that is a compliment, coming from you.”

Compliment? She reviewed her words and felt her insides shrink. “I-I didn’t mean to say it’s not terrible. It’s rather good. Very, uh, exciting.”

He studied her, and she felt utterly foolish under his blue gaze. “It must be, for my lady’s dictionary to be so confounded, considering her usually vibrant vocabulary.”

She flushed even more. She must have looked a ripe tomato.

His expression softened. “I don’t mean to embarrass you. In truth, I wouldn’t mind a reader. Someone to point out the flaws and such. As long as you give any misspellings some mercy. It is a first draft.”

Hulda cleared her throat. “Perhaps when the novel is finished. I need to conclude my report to Ms. Haigh at BIKER.” She held up the pencil sharpener as if to confirm her alibi. I can’t believe I didn’t hear him coming! I can’t believe I got so distracted . . . oh, Hulda, you buffoon.

Adjusting the chair, Mr. Fernsby sat down, allowing Hulda to carefully retreat. “If you insist.” He reached for the top-left drawer of his desk and pulled on the handle, but the drawer remained fixed in place. He tugged with more enthusiasm. “Owein, let me open this, would you?”

Glimpsing into the hallway, she saw Owein was still busy swirling the carpet. So rebuilding herself with a stiff spine, pressed-back shoulders, and a lifted nose, she ducked into her room to retrieve a crowbar from her bag. Mr. Fernsby was still working on the drawer when she said, “If I may.”

He released the handle. “Are you going to magic it?”

Hulda shoved the tooth of the crowbar just above it. With a little leverage, the drawer popped open.

“It was warm today,” she explained. “I believe the wood had merely warped.”

“Ah.” He glanced from the drawer to her. “You’re quite handy. Are you sure you won’t stay and read with me?”

The simple, unobtrusive invitation rang through her like a metal spoon running down her ribs. Stay and read with me. Stay and spend quiet, peaceful time with Merritt Fernsby. Absorb his work, watch him write, feel a part of it. It was as alluring as the scent of freshly baked rolls at the end of a toilsome day.

She twisted the crowbar in her hands. “I have a report to finish,” she said, swallowing her own disappointment.

He nodded. “Good luck.”

She set for the exit, feeling neither relief nor accomplishment, but paused before slipping into the hallway. “Mr. Fernsby.”

“Hm?”

“What . . .” She felt silly, but a little curiosity was perfectly natural. After all, she did work with the man. “What was the title of your first book? The one already published?”

He grinned. “A Pauper in the Making.”

Nodding, Hulda turned away and shut the door firmly behind her.