‘Well and good. But in the meantime, you spoke with him. Yes?’
Why did everyone need to interrogate her? ‘Yes. Briefly. He intimated a friendship with you, and not knowing who he was, I believed him.’
Mr King clasped his hands behind his back and walked a few paces away before swinging around to face her again. ‘We were friends once.’
‘You were? When?’
‘Years ago. Before the ...’
‘Before?’
Mr King let out a half laugh. ‘Before the falling out we had.’
‘Oh, that is a shame. Does Mr Moncrief intend revenge?’ Serena bit her lip. She busied herself unpegging another towel, recognising the faint odour of lye soap still in the linen.
‘I suppose you could say that. I have not spoken to him in years. But according to Judith, he is out to ruin me.’
‘Well, I hope I can put your mind at rest, Mr King. I am not a tell-tale. He asked me for my opinion of you and I scolded him for his impudence. So, unless he twists my words around ...’ Serena faltered as she remembered her earlier fears and looked up from her folding. ‘Would he do that?’
‘Once, I would have denied he had the capacity for heartlessness. But now, I am uncertain.’
Mr King’s face held not a trace of emotion. Was he angry? Sad? Afraid? He stepped closer to her again—too close for Serena to remain comfortable. Her heart skipped a beat, or maybe two, and the linen in her hand slipped from her grasp as if it were made of soap rather than coarse material.
‘Did you really scold Moncrief?’
‘Y--y-yes. I think impertinent was the word I used.’ This close, Serena saw that Mr King had shaved today. There was only a dark shadow where his whiskers might be. And the scent of cloves tingled her senses.
He studied her face thoughtfully, for so long, she began to feel awkward. ‘It seems I might be able to trust you, Miss Bellingham.’
‘Of…of course you c-can.’ Serena’s words tumbled out in a stutter as the intimacy of the moment disturbed her composure.
‘Let’s hope then, that Moncrief publishes nothing sinister, shall we?’ Breaking his intense gaze, Mr King moved away, relieving the tension between them.
‘I shall pray he doesn’t.’ Serena let out her pent-up breath.
‘Pray?’
‘Do you not believe in Providence, Mr King?’
He seemed to stiffen. ‘I believe in creating my own destiny.’
‘That sounds very lonely.’
‘The gods are too busy fighting amongst themselves over who is greatest for me to interest them. Greek gods, Egyptian gods, the Jewish god, Islam’s Allah, Hindu gods, and that’s not an exhaustive list. I don’t need a god. I can look after myself.’
Serena could not ignore the hard glint in Mr King’s eye as he finished. How could she argue with someone as widely educated as he was, while she had only ever learnt the basic three ‘R’s? She was no theologian. To Serena, faith was a simple matter of trust—not a process of deliberation. But she suspected if she tried to explain that to him, he would argue her down within moments. She shrugged. ‘If you say so, Mr King.’
‘Do you not agree that people should be self-sufficient, Miss Bellingham?’
‘Well, no. It’s nice to be needed, is it not?’
As soon as the words left her mouth, she doubted the truth of them. Indeed, hadn’t she wished her sisters and Papa didn’t need her quite so much; wished for space to choose her own life. But that’s all they were—wishes. The truth was they did need her, and she was no longer there to help.
‘I suppose so, now you mention it. It is pleasant when someone needs to draw from my wealth of knowledge.’
‘But you never need to lean on someone else?’
‘No, Miss Bellingham, I don’t. In my experience, most people want to control me, and that I prefer to avoid.’
Serena glanced at him but could not read his expression. He delivered statements without sentiment, as though stating facts. She didn’t know what to make of his words, and as they parted company, she wondered about this enigma of a man. With resources and intelligence like his, who would have the power to manipulate him? And why did he suspect they did?
Several days passed and Serena began to fall into a routine. In the mornings she would wash the smaller items of linen and clothing, leaving the larger items such as bed linen for the Monday maids. While the laundry dried on the lines, she would move about the house, straightening, dusting, polishing, wherever she saw the need.
For the most part, it was uneventful. She rarely saw Mr King, and if she did, he continued to be brusque, or civil at best. The rest of the family displayed varying levels of suspicion toward her, except Mr Xavier and Mr Jones Senior. She had shared several laughs with the latter, his dry wit matching her sense of humour.
But one thing made Serena more curious every night. Late into the dark hours, when all else was quiet, she heard the clomp, clomp of Mr King’s footsteps pass outside her room. Every night. Sometimes it woke her, and sometimes, like tonight, she was still awake and fretting over Papa and the girls. Did the man never sleep?
Since the wind was gusting about the parapets tonight, she had little chance of falling asleep for a while. Perhaps she might see what Mr King was trying to design while he walked.
She slipped her feet into her slippers and pulled her robe over her night dress, tying it securely. Before opening the door, she smoothed her braid to make sure she wouldn’t appear too dishevelled, and then stepped into the hallway.
He must have heard the door open, for he swivelled to face her before she could speak.
‘Good evening, Mr King,’ she aimed for a pleasant smile, ‘or is it good morning?’
A rare, wry grin twisted his lips. ‘Neither, Miss Bellingham. I believe I just heard the grandfather clock strike midnight.’
‘Well, then. Good midnight?’ Serena giggled at her own inanity.
‘You are
