“You look nothing like your sister.” The second woman stepped forward, her mouth pulled into a flat line.
“What Abigail means,” the first woman said, narrowing her eyes at her sister, “is that it is rare for sisters to look so different from one another, yet be extraordinarily beautiful in their own ways.”
“That makes you Margaret?” I asked with a smile.
The woman nodded, her curly white hair bouncing. Wooden clips held her hair down in the front, but the strands sprang back up immediately, creating a halo of hair around her head. Both sisters had the same hair. And the same clothes. And the same bare feet.
“Yes, forgive me.” Charles jumped forward, took Margaret’s hand and bowed slightly. “This is Margaret Wilds and Abigail Wilds,” he said, pointing to the more serious sister standing closer to the doorway. “Our favorite neighbors.”
“Their only neighbors,” Margaret said. She stepped aside and waved us in. I didn’t even bother looking around anymore for a housemaid.
Life on the moors was much different than I expected it would be.
The rooms were clean, but cluttered. Pieces of painted wood and pictures covered the walls, piles of rocks filled the shelves and decorated the centers of tables, and hand-woven rugs covered the floors, creating a patchwork of colors and materials and patterns. A large fire roared in the stone fireplace, but it had a utilitarian purpose, as well. A large pot hung over the flame, and I could hear something inside of it bubbling.
“Welcome to our home,” Margaret said, coming from the dining room with a tarnished silver tray in her hands. A tea kettle and four mugs rattled on it. “I’m sure Charles prepared you for what it would be like to join us for dinner, but we hope you aren’t overwhelmed by our customs. My sister and I like to live simply and do things the old ways.”
I shook my head. “Not at all. Charles mentioned that you run your home differently, but he had only the best things to say about you.”
She set the tea on a low table in front of a sofa covered in blankets and throws, and Charles’ leg brushed against mine as he sat down. When I looked over, he was smiling and gladly accepting a cup of tea, but I could see the tension at the corners of his mouth. It had been a warning. Or rather, a reminder. Steer clear of the tea.
I accepted my cup and then took a cue from Charles who kept his cup in his lap, never once taking a drink.
“Others are not as kind to myself and my sister,” Abigail said, taking a long, loud sip of her tea. “We have been ostracized from our nearest neighbors for years.”
“I’m sorry. That must be unpleasant.”
“Not especially,” Abigail said. “I quite like the quiet.”
Margaret chuckled. “My sister tends towards reclusiveness, but I like company. We were delighted when Catherine and Charles first came to see us. So delighted I’m afraid we frightened Catherine away. She never has come back for a visit.”
“Not at all,” Charles said. “Catherine tends towards reclusiveness, as well. When I come to visit you both, it leaves her time to be alone in the house. Anyway, the pregnancy and the baby…it is a lot for her to manage.”
I tried to school my features into a neutral expression, but it was difficult when everything Charles was saying was patently false.
Catherine loved company. She enjoyed conversation, and even though the Wilds would no doubt disturb Catherine with their style of living, she would find it fascinating enough to come back and experience again and again. I’d only been there fifteen minutes and was already anxious for my next visit.
Also, Catherine hadn’t been busy with Hazel at all. Not since Camellia Cresswell had arrived, anyway.
“Is Camellia still staying with you?” Abigail asked, as if reading my mind. There was something strange about the way she said the woman’s name—a subtle sharpness to her voice that made me wonder whether she had noticed the same overbearing tendencies I had in my short time spent with the family thus far.
Charles feigned a drink of his tea, the murky liquid never slipping over the rim of his cup, and nodded. “Yes. I suspect she will be with us for some time.”
“Sad story.” Margaret shook her head and then released a long sigh. She picked up the conversation again before I could guess at what she meant. “Be sure to tell Catherine we would be delighted to have her as our guest again as soon as she feels up to it.”
“She feels fine,” Charles said quickly. “But I will pass the message along.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed on Charles for a moment before she rose to her feet and went to stir the bubbling liquid in the pot.
“My sister and I were lucky enough to trap two rabbits yesterday afternoon. That meat paired with mushrooms and herbs from our garden made the stew for our dinner.” She wafted the steam from the pot up to her nose and smiled. “It should be ready shortly.”
“I made bread.” Abigail pointed to a wooden cutting board sitting on the side table. A dense loaf of bread with several slices sawed away sat on top of it.
“You are both very…resourceful,” I said, finally landing on the correct word.
“People have done for themselves for centuries, and my sister and I see no need to rely on anyone else now,” Margaret said, reclaiming her seat on the chair to my right. She crossed her ankles, and if it hadn’t been for the wild state of her hair and dress, she would have looked like a proper lady. Her spine was tall and straight, shoulders pushed
