‘Simon, let me deal with this.’ Mrs Jones clasped her son’s arm, nudging him toward the door.
With something akin to a growl, the groundskeeper yielded and headed back to his gardening.
Mrs Jones turned to Serena. ‘Don’t mind him too much. He is over-protective of his uncle.’
Why did Mr King need protection? Or was she referring to his privacy? ‘I don’t understand. What is so wrong with Mr Moncrief?’
Mrs Jones let out a heavy sigh. ‘He is a journalist for the Sydney Herald. It is his goal to make a scandal of my brother’s life. He comes here at least once every month. I’m sure he thought it serendipitous when you answered the door today. Have you ever read the Herald, Miss Bellingham?’
‘Yes, now and then.’
‘Moncrief writes most articles that involve gossip about Sydney’s wealthy, powerful and notable folk. He’s a scandalmonger. He thrives on it and has become notorious for it.’
So that’s where Serena recognised his name. The newspapers. That’s where she’d read those little titbits on Mr King. Yes, and the latest on-dits about Mr Johnathon Fordham, the son of a baron, or a whisper of gossip about Governor Gipps. Caleb Moncrief. And she’d let him into this house and let him fool her with his smooth words. ‘Oh. I’m very sorry. I should not have let him in.’
‘Like I said, you weren’t to know.’ Mrs Jones gripped her elbow, and they walked back toward the library. ‘Anyway, he didn’t find Eddie, so all is well.’
Serena tried to smile, but uncertainty made it difficult. Had they averted a crisis? Now that the chaos was over, Serena recalled Mr Moncrief asking—or insinuating—very specific details. What had her replies been? Might she have unwarily damaged Mr King’s public figure? She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to replay her exact conversation with Mr Moncrief.
How angry would Mr King be if she’d tarnished his reputation further with thoughtless words? That he considered her the daughter of a thief was bad enough. Would he now also think her a gossip? So much for trying to impress Mr King so he might release her to her family soon.
6
Several times throughout the afternoon, Serena had the distinct impression someone watched her. The eerie sensation came over her as she worked outside and hung washing on the lines which crisscrossed a small courtyard. Hedges enclosed the yard on three sides, save a small gap near the wall that led onto the grounds. She supposed this design hid the unsightliness of laundering.
Why would anyone wish to spy on her pulling in linen? It baffled Serena. Surely, it must be her imagination running out of control again. Ever since the encounter with Mr Moncrief that morning, she had invented the worst scenarios for what the journalist might write, and the possible effect on Mr King. Her imaginings descended to his decommissioning for his work on the theatre. Then his reputation ruined so that no one would ever hire him again. And it would be all her fault.
Just as her sisters’ demise would be her fault. Not only did she imagine tragedy for Mr King, but also for her family. Perhaps they were slowly starving with no one to cook for them. If she could run home and see they were well, it would be a salve to her, but then Mr King might hold to his promise and have Papa arrested. She couldn’t take the risk.
And now she suspected a prowler watched her. As Serena unpegged and folded a towel, the uneasy sensation in the pit of her stomach grew. She glanced over her shoulder. Did someone crouch outside the hedge perhaps, watching her? She dropped the fresh towel on top of the basket and headed for the gap in the hedge. Only one thing would put her mind at rest.
Serena ducked around the corner of the hedge, which stretched in a vacant line before her. No matter, perhaps the spy hid around the corner. She hurried forward and peeked around each bend to find nothing. Not a soul. Not a sound. Not even a hint that someone had been there recently.
‘There you go, Serena. It is only wicked inventiveness.’ In scolding herself aloud, her fears faded even more. She returned to folding and tried humming one of her favourite hymns, Rock of Ages, which she’d sung often with Papa. Though humming that tune distracted her it soon made her miss her family.
‘I heard you spoke to Moncrief this morning.’
Serena almost leapt out of her boots. Where had he come from so suddenly? ‘Mr King! I didn’t hear you come out.’
The corner of his mouth jerked upward. Was that meant to be a smile? Did he enjoy catching her unprepared? His intense gaze flickered with interest. Saints above, he was striking to behold. In the light of day, his chiselled jawline and broody mouth drew her eye like magnets. As if she didn’t feel warm enough from her work already without him looking at her like that. Come to think of it, she must look a fright after laundering. Her hands fluttered to wayward strands of hair, tucking them behind her ears, then smoothed her blouse and skirt.
‘I startled you. Again. At least your head is not wedged beneath my sofa this time.’ Mr King’s lips twitched once more.
‘You have a way of sneaking up on one, Mr King.’
‘Moncrief?’
He drew her back to the point of his visit. No time for pleasantries. Even a ‘how was your day’ would have been nice. What was she thinking? Serena was here as his employee and for discipline, nothing else. Whatever she might have expected from him, she must disregard it now. He was toying with her, or—how did his sister put it—baiting her. Serena cleared her throat. ‘Yes, he came to the door, unexpected.’
‘And he gave you the slip.’
‘I suppose he did.’ There was no other explanation. Mr Moncrief had misled her, intending to sneak off to find Mr King. ‘But your sister and nephew—Mr Simon—found him
