“Indeed. January, if I recall, Rolf,” Lucan confirmed. “Until the morn, then.” He gave a shallow bow in Padraig’s direction and then strode quickly toward the rear of the entry, disappearing into a darkened archway.
Lucan Montague knew Darlyrede House well, obviously—its servants, its corridors.
“This way, lord,” Rolf repeated, his words barely louder than a whisper, and yet they seemed to carry in a spiral to the very height of the tall ceiling, where they evaporated into heavy, pressing silence brought on by the glares of the portraits.
Padraig followed the steward from the entry, unable to help the feeling that the quiet of Darlyrede House was nothing more than the insulating thickness of decades of secrets.
And it caused him to wonder where the pretty Beryl had gone, and why she had seemed so afraid.
Chapter 3
Euphemia Hargrave’s chamber was empty upon Beryl’s return. The fifteen candles burned low, the tray untouched as usual. The connecting door was shut tight, but, pressed by Lord Hargrave’s directive, Beryl crossed the floor to rap upon it lightly. She would have done so even had Lord Hargrave not bidden her.
“My lady?” she called. “It is Beryl.”
There was no answer, and so Beryl pressed the latch, but the door had been bolted on the other side. The woman was so frail, so fragile, Beryl imagined a hundred tragic scenarios that could have befallen the lady in her absence.
She rapped again, slightly louder. “Lady Hargrave, please, are you well?”
“Beryl?” The call was faint beyond the stout door. “Are you alone?”
“Yes, milady.” She swallowed her relief and tried to steady her voice. “I’ve come to tell you of the happenings.”
There was a scraping of metal on wood, and then the door opened a crack, revealing a pale slice of the noblewoman’s face.
“I dared journey on my own to the top of the stair,” Caris whispered, and Beryl could see even in the shadow of the portal the woman’s dry, trembling lips.
Beryl gasped. “Alone? My lady, forgive me, but what if you had stumbled?”
“How could I not see for myself, though? Such chaos. I heard everything.”
“Shall I stay with you?” Beryl wanted her—needed her—to open the door. Perhaps there were a few moments to spare before the terrible lord made his appearance. Moments in which Beryl might reclaim the confidence of the woman, might somehow encourage her to tell that which she had been on the verge of. And if she was present in the chamber, perhaps she might glean details of the evil man’s plans for Darlyrede’s bold claimant.
Darlyrede belongs to me, he’d said.
Beryl shook the image from her mind. “I might be of some comfort.”
“It is unnecessary,” Caris said. “I will be with my lord husband.”
“I know,” Beryl blurted out, and then felt her cheeks heat. She hadn’t meant to be so bold. “Forgive me, my lady. But…if I may speak plainly, I worry—”
“Nay. Hush. You may not speak plainly,” Caris snapped. But then her hand—pale and cool and dry—shot out from the darkness and clutched at Beryl’s wrist. Beryl turned it to wrap her fingers around the lady’s own—it was like gripping the tiny bones of a bird encased in the thinnest, softest leather.
“He would never harm me,” Caris whispered. Her fingers tightened, like thin, strong twine. “Never.”
“If anything were to happen to you, milady, I could not forgive myself.”
True.
A ghostly sigh came from the darkened chamber. “Ah, my girl. Seek your bed, and let no dire worries trouble your young dreams. All is well. Think upon it no more.”
Beryl hesitated, noting the woman had not relinquished her grip. Was she only putting on a brave front?
“Shall I return later? To see if there is anything you desire?”
Lady Hargrave gave a rare, low chuckle, and Beryl could imagine the soft lines near her eyes and mouth pressing into her sad, gentle smile. And then she did slip her hand from Beryl’s.
“Good night, Beryl.” She closed the door soundlessly.
“Good night, milady,” Beryl whispered, hot, stinging tears coming unbidden to her eyes. She leaned her forehead against the wood and pressed against the door with both splayed hands, wishing in that moment that she could vanish the barrier, or turn it transparent at least.
But she had been given her instructions, and she would carry them out faithfully.
Beryl pushed herself away from the door and moved efficiently about the chamber, pulling the heavy drapes closed, straightening the bedclothes. She removed the piece of cheese from the platter and rolled it into a corner of her apron, which she tucked into her waist, and then carried the tray to the corridor, where she placed it on the floor to the side of the doorway. She returned to the chamber to blow out the candles, one by one, save the last, which she pulled from the holder and carried with her to the door.
She paused in the doorway, the single flame barely pressing back the darkness that wept from the corners, from the seams of floor and ceiling and walls. The chamber seemed pregnant with secrets, and perhaps Beryl had come close to witnessing the bearing of them tonight.
Fifteen years of darkness. Of mourning and misery and quiet, tragic ritual. Her breath caught in her throat at her sigh. She closed the door with a silent prayer for the noblewoman waiting alone, just out of her reach.
But as soon as the latch clicked sure, fear for her own safety occupied her thoughts. It was a test of will for Beryl to walk calmly during the long trek to her own chamber from Lady Caris’s wing of Darlyrede House. Her heart pounded in her chest so that her blood crackled against her ears. Every whisper of her own slippers against corridor floor or stair she imagined was a
