Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 22

September 23, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt wasn’t sleeping well.

There were various reasons he wasn’t sleeping well. One being that he was too tired. Which sounded silly, but for whatever reason, if Merritt went to bed too sleepy, sleep tended to elude him. As though his brain had to stay awake to compensate for the weariness of his body.

Two, he was suffering a bout of creative constipation. He had made good progress on his novel, but now he was somewhat stuck. Merritt didn’t really plan his stories in advance, so the details had to come out little by little, step by step. He often didn’t know how they would end until he got there. And in truth, although he’d made a living with his pen since he was twenty-three, most of it had been newspaper articles and short fiction—his first published novel had been a struggle. So he deliberated over the adventures of Elise and Warren in his head, wondering if they should betray each other (but with what motivation?) or perhaps fall in love.

That train of thought ultimately led him to Hulda. She liked his book. Which meant she liked his brain, didn’t it? Which made him consider how nice it would be to have a person to bounce ideas off indefinitely, whether it was midday or midnight. Which also made him think of how nice it would be if there were another body taking up space in this too-wide bed. Someone warm and soft and there.

Merritt growled. Stop it. He was an independent bachelor who had made a good life for himself with very little help from others. He was content with that life. He’d made himself content with it. And every time he tried to expand said contentment to include another person, it always went sour. What was the point of trying?

Rolling over, he folded the pillow under his head and forced his eyes shut. Pretended to sleep for a full minute.

He thought, again, of what it would be like when Hulda left for BIKER. Well, so what? He could overcome infatuation. He had before. But Hulda was like picking up a book with no description, fanfare, or title and discovering it got better and better with each page turned. He wanted to know how her story would read. He wanted to reach the denouement, the end. And he wanted to see if she had a sequel.

It must have been near midnight when Merritt finally groaned, sat up, and ventured out of his blankets to put on trousers. Lying there endlessly obviously wasn’t helping. He’d try stretching his legs a bit, maybe get some fresh air. Granted, this far from the cities, it was awfully dark at night, and he was more likely to sprain an ankle strolling outside than he was to relax.

Rubbing his eyes, he padded down the hall, surprised to see light beneath Hulda’s door. He heard her voice saying, “Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,” and wondered at it, but decided to give her privacy and ventured instead toward the stairs. Owein, who did not seem to need sleep, graciously turned the stairs into a giant wooden slide before he arrived. With a sigh, Merritt sat and slid down on his rump. The stairs returned to normal a moment later.

Though he was headed toward the front door, he heard a pounding coming from the kitchen, so he ventured through the dining and breakfast rooms, finding Baptiste hunched over the counter in the kitchen, smashing a piece of meat with a little metal hammer.

“I think it’s dead,” Merritt offered.

The only sign of surprise was a quick flex of the man’s shoulders, which he peered over to look at Merritt. “I am . . .” He paused. “Temporizing it.”

“Tenderizing?”

“Yes, that.” His accent weighed his words more than usual. He had to be tired. “I am making schnitzel.”

One of Hulda’s choices, no doubt. “I’m sure the meat can be smashed in the morning if you want to get some rest.”

The chef shrugged. “Sometimes I do not sleep.”

Merritt pulled over a stool and sat. “You and I both. It’s something that comes with age. How old are you, my friend?”

“I turned forty in August.”

“You don’t look a day over thirty-seven.”

Baptiste snorted. Might have even smiled, but his face was turned toward the meat.

“Pork?” Merritt guessed.

Baptiste nodded.

“What is your favorite thing to cook?”

“Pies,” he answered immediately. “Fruit pie, meat pie, cream pie. I am very good at pies.”

Merritt’s stomach rumbled at the thought of so many pastries. “I will hardly keep you from making pies.”

“Need a cellar for the butter. It works better cold.”

“Perhaps Owein can dig one for you.”

He shrugged. “Give me shovel, and I will dig it myself. And take care of the cow.”

That gave him pause. “What cow?”

Baptiste glanced over again. “I talked to Mrs. Larkin about cow. I would like cow. Take good care of her. Have lots of cream.”

Merritt wondered what a whole cow’s worth of cream would do to his digestion, but his tongue moistened at the idea. “If my novel does well, I will get you—us—a cow. I’ll even let you name it.”

This time, he thought he caught sight of a dimple on the stoic man’s face.

A sudden thud! sounded upstairs, followed by a scream.

Both men tensed. Baptiste bolted from the counter, nearly mowing over Merritt as he rushed to his feet. They dashed through the two dining rooms and into the reception hall. Baptiste took the stairs three at a time and reached Hulda’s bedroom first, Merritt three paces behind. The chef, still wielding his hammer, barged in so roughly he almost tore the door from its frame.

A million half thoughts rushed through Merritt’s mind, centering on Hulda’s welfare. Had someone broken in? Was it a rat? Was it—

Hulda in her underthings?

Baptiste was inside the bedroom, but Merritt halted in the hallway, peering over the big man’s arm, to where Hulda stood in nothing but her drawers, chemise, and tightly laced corset. Her hands swung up to cover the cleavage spilling over the latter’s top, and her face bloomed like a summer hibiscus.

“Get out!” she screamed, obviously very hale and unharmed.

Baptiste, equally as red, tripped over himself in his rush to close the door. Slam it, really.

Merritt tried to speak but found he couldn’t. He was still trying to catch his breath. Understand what on earth the scream had been about. And why Hulda was trouncing around in her underwear.

His thoughts lingered on that last question, and the visual that went with it.

Baptiste cleared his throat. “We will not speak of this.” His long legs carried him to the stairs.

“Indeed,” Merritt muttered, confused, and very aware of the woman on the other side of the door.

He certainly would not be sleeping tonight.

Merritt did, eventually, drift off, which lent to a late waking. He scrubbed his face with cold water, brushed his hair and left it loose—he lived on an island, for heaven’s sake, no need to concern himself with fashion—and dressed, forgoing the vest because why bother. Beth was polishing the banisters when he came downstairs, and she nodded to him without meeting his eyes, which was curious. Hulda had just finished breakfast and was carrying her dishes to the sink.

Discomfort crept up and down Merritt’s esophagus like a colony of termites. “Mrs. Larkin, I’m glad to catch you. I must apologize on behalf of Baptiste and myself; we heard a scream and were rather rash in our discovery of its source.”

She set the plates down. “Indeed you were. Or at least, Mr. Babineaux was.”

He let out a relieved breath upon hearing her heap most of the blame on Baptiste, suddenly glad the Frenchman was so much quicker than he was. Guilt quickly followed. He wanted to see how the chef was faring after the embarrassment, but Baptiste did not wish to discuss last night’s incident.

Wiping off her hands, Hulda turned to face him, every bit as stern and upright as she’d been the day Merritt met her. He’d begun to suspect it was a comforting mask she wore—the utmost professionalism to hide unwanted emotions and discomfiture. Another page turned in her metaphorical book. “I appreciate the apology. I was teaching Miss Taylor some country dances, and in her excitement, she leapt atop my trunk, which was empty. We both toppled over, and she shouted in surprise.”

“Beth?” Merritt repeated without thinking.

Her brow furrowed. “I presume you have not yet apologized to her.”

“I . . . admittedly, I hadn’t noticed Miss Taylor was there as well.” His chest warmed. Chuckling, he rubbed the back of his neck to have something to do, realizing he’d just unwittingly admitted his eyes had gone straight to Hulda and never strayed. “I will”—he turned to hide his face—“go do that right now.”

“Mr. Fernsby.”

He paused.

Hulda scanned the ceiling. “Owein has been very responsive to us, ever since we learned his name.”

Merritt relaxed a fraction. “I’ve noticed the same.”

“I recall you were not fond of the idea of hiring employees initially. Perhaps, with some additional training, staff may not be necessary.” She offered the information carefully, almost as though it were rehearsed. “Owein’s adept at keeping himself orderly, as we saw from the lack of neglect upon your arrival, and he’s assisted me in simple chores as well. You needn’t worry about Miss Taylor. She will not be short of work so long as she’s affiliated with BIKER.”

She didn’t look at him on that last sentence, but out the window. The streaming sunlight highlighted the flecks of green in her eyes. Why wouldn’t she look at him?

Did Hulda not want to leave? The thought made his stomach tighten and the termites repopulate. As she was an employee of BIKER, Merritt had little say over her comings and goings. Was it too much to hope she didn’t wish for him to follow through on the professional advice she was offering?

Could he convince her to stay? Stay . . . for him?

“Thank you, but my cash reserves are hardly overspent,” he offered, coaxing her eyes to meet his gaze once more. And even if they were . . . he wouldn’t send any of them away unless they wished to leave. They hadn’t been together for long, but a sense of familiarity had begun to settle in the house, a sort of routine that made him think of, well, home. He had tried for years not to think of home, for it never left him in a good mood. But Baptiste’s quiddities, Beth’s quiet presence, and Hulda’s restrained banter made him nostalgic in a comforting way. It made him remember the good, not the bad. It felt almost like a family. “In truth, I like the company. I would like you . . . and Miss Taylor and Baptiste to stay.”

A few seconds of silence—which felt like much longer to him—passed between them, gazes interlocked. Still holding his gaze, Hulda said, “I think I—all of us—appreciate that, Mr. Fernsby.”

Feeling a little daring, he said, “I still want you to call me Merritt.”

She hesitated half a heartbeat, a small smile at the left corner of her mouth. “I know.”

With nothing more to be said, Merritt excused himself to offer his apologies to Miss Taylor. And perhaps a raise as well, to sweeten her disposition.

The morning after Miss Taylor’s dance in Portsmouth, Hulda sat mending her torn hem in case the two dresses she’d ordered got delayed. She sat across the room from Mr. Fernsby and tried not to pay him much mind as he edited his manuscript, though he had a habit of making strange noises as he did so. Little grunts and inquisitive hums, which Hulda had at first thought were intended to gain her attention. But his eyes never left the pages, and three fine lines were constantly wedged between his eyebrows as he concentrated. He had one pencil behind his ear and another one clenched in his teeth. Oddly enough, Hulda had once made a habit of chewing on pencils herself, but the English instructor at her all-girls school had beaten it out of her when she was a child . . . often using the very pencil bearing her tooth marks.

He had one foot up on the settee upon which he’d perched, the other propped on the table, which once would have driven Hulda mad. Now she found it strangely charming. Which she should not . . . but Merritt’s—Mr. Fernsby’s—soft words in the kitchen yesterday had softened her resolve. A resolve she heavily starched when alone, yet somehow managed to crinkle whenever she was in his presence.

She liked being in his presence, even if it was quiet. She could be happy with just that—

Her chair inched sideways.

Hulda gripped the armrest with one hand, the other pinching her needle. She glanced around, but nothing seemed amiss. Odd. Perhaps she needed to drink some water.

Rolling her lips together, Hulda made one more stitch before the chair shifted again, in the same direction. She paused. The first incident she might have written off as a dizzy spell, but not this one. What on earth—

The chair scooted another inch, toward Mr. Fernsby. Who heard the scraping of its feet, because he glanced up from his manuscript.

It was then Hulda noticed the floor had risen, albeit only the portion beneath her, and the slope was making her chair slide.

Toward the settee where Mr. Fernsby sat.

Nails digging into the armrest, she said, “Owein, stop that.”

The floor sloped a little more, scooting her a hand’s width, until her chair was touching the settee.

“What’s he about?” Mr. Fernsby asked.

Hulda huffed. “Really, Owein. Stop this at—”

The floor bucked upward, tossing Hulda from her seat and propelling her toward Mr. Fernsby.

He dropped his manuscript, sending a few pages flying, and grasped her shoulders, lifting her before she could plop face-first into his lap. Her cheeks burned fiercely, even more so when she started thinking about Mr. Fernsby’s lap, and she inwardly cursed the fool boy who thought such pranks entertaining.

Finding her feet, she whipped around so sharply her glasses barely held on to her nose. “I swear I will put up enough charms to ward you into the library, Owein Mansel!”

The house stilled.

A few seconds ticked by before Mr. Fernsby said, “It’s the last name. Always wields more power than the first, though not as much as the middle.” His face dimpled in a way that suggested he found this all very amusing but was trying to be polite. “Do you think he has a middle name? That would really drive it home.”

Hulda smoothed her skirt, then snatched her chair and moved it back to its original place. Then a little farther from the settee, as though to make a point she did not care to examine. “Perhaps.”

She picked up her mending and plopped down with a childish amount of righteous indignation. Pushing the needle into her torn hem, she dared to glance up at Mr. Fernsby. He caught her eye with a soft, amused smile. She refocused on her work. Three stitches later, she glanced up again, but he was back to poring over his manuscript. Hulda frowned. She didn’t want to be stared at, after that embarrassing tirade, but . . . perhaps it was silly to want him to notice her more than he did.

Pressing her lips together, she worried she might have muttered some things about Merritt Fernsby aloud once or twice, which little Owein might have overheard . . .

Thank God the spirit couldn’t speak to Merritt and embarrass her further.

She glanced up again. Watched him read. Perhaps she should have resituated herself on the settee. A childish thought, and yet . . .

Footsteps outside the door announced Miss Taylor, who stepped inside with a pearly smile on her face and a stack of letters under her arm—she must have stopped by the post office before returning to the island. Upon seeing the stack, Hulda’s heart leapt, and she stabbed herself with her needle, eliciting a squeak from her lips.

Mr. Fernsby lowered the papers. “Are you all right?”

He was so absorbed by his work she was surprised and stupidly delighted that he’d noticed. “I haven’t pricked myself in years,” she said, shaking out the finger. The tiniest welling of blood marked the skin. “Hardly anything serious. Miss Taylor, what are the letters?”

Mr. Fernsby leaned forward to better see the maid. “Miss Taylor! Did you enjoy yourself? I worry you didn’t if you’re walking so well. I’ve seen many a dancer bleed and blister their feet on the dance floor.”

She beamed. “It was right fun, Mr. Fernsby, my thanks.” She nodded at Hulda and pulled out the envelopes. “I’ve two letters for Mr. Fernsby and two for you, Mrs. Larkin. Plus a package, which I put on your bed.”

The dresses, already?

Hulda pulled the needle free of its thread. “Excellent. I shan’t have to keep piecing this thing together.” Perhaps she could rehem it and send it to her sister, who was shorter than she was . . . but Danielle had much more eclectic taste in fashion and likely wouldn’t wear it.

Miss Taylor crossed to Mr. Fernsby first and handed him his letters before shifting toward Hulda.

“Ah! Fletcher.” Halfway through tearing open the first letter, he glanced Hulda’s way. “He’s visiting next week, with luck. I can take care of preparations.”

“Need I remind you what staff is for?” She allowed some wryness to creep into her expression, which Mr. Fernsby met with a grin. “Owein could likely make him his own room.” Miss Taylor handed her the letters. “Thank you, Miss Taylor.”

The envelopes were in such poor condition Hulda wondered if they’d been sent via conjury—transformed into a shape capable of flying across the Atlantic, then restored to their original form upon arrival—instead of a kinetically powered ship. The former was becoming rather antediluvian. Her eyes sailed to the return address. England, both of them.

Her breath hitched. “If you’ll excuse me.” Draping her torn dress over her shoulder, Hulda headed for the exit. Mr. Fernsby called after her, but she answered only with a reassuring wave as she continued on her way, across carpet that was now pink with large green spots marring it, courtesy of the resident ghost. Hulda barely registered the garishness and arrived at her room with her fingers cold and jittery.

She opened the first letter, from the constabulary of Liverpool. It was brief, the writing little more than chicken scratch.

We’ve no record of any Hogwoods leaving the Merseyside or registering for emigration, but he could have done so at a port city.

She sighed. It was the best she was going to get—few migrants bothered with paperwork, and Mr. Hogwood of all people would hardly wish to leave a paper trail.

Setting the letter aside, she opened the second, from the warden of Lancaster Castle.

Miss Larkin,

I remember Silas Hogwood, but I pulled up his records to be sure. He was imprisoned here, yes, but passed away on June 14 by an unknown cause. He was still healthy, from what I could tell. Quite peculiar.

My apologies if this news brings any distress.

Formally Yours,

Benjamin Canterbury

Hulda stared at the letter, not quite comprehending. She read it again, but the words blurred together, so she sat on her trunk and adjusted her glasses before reading it through a third time, top to bottom. Turned the paper over just in case there was something on the back, then read it again.

Distress . . . yes, it was distressing. How could a healthy man pass away in a prison, where he would have been routinely monitored, without anyone having a clue as to why? Granted, prisons weren’t the most sanitary dwellings . . .

She licked her lips. The letter drooped in her limp grip.

This means he couldn’t have been in Portsmouth, she reminded herself. But the information didn’t relieve her, only worried her.

Had the warden seen Mr. Hogwood’s body with his own eyes? Did they realize what a powerful magic user he was? Perhaps he’d lost many of his spells after those corpses were destroyed . . .

She attempted to quash her unreasonable concerns and take solace that the horrible wizard was gone. And yet, despite the assurance in her hands, those concerns burned bright as a bonfire feasting on her bones.