Chapter 4
His footsteps collided with the floor like ominous threats—left, right, left, right.
And yet, in the darkness, Waverly found herself almost hugging the back of Titus Fitzgerald—which was most improper—only because he seemed safer than the marauding spirits she was certain existed in the house.
Her earlier accusation that he was her uncle’s killer was ludicrous, she realized now.
If he had returned to finish her off, he would have already done so.
What motive would an undertaker have to murder someone?
Perhaps that was an unfair question. After all, undertakers were in the business of dealing with the dead.
As it was, Waverly’s initial fright and anger had dissipated into not a small bit of relief at having human connection.
She stayed as close to him as possible. He was tall and his shoulders were broad, his legs long, and his dark hair made darker by the lack of light.
Truth be told, Mr. Fitzgerald was dark all the way around, and once light met him, only his blue eyes would illuminate brightly.
There were rumors that his grandfather was of African descent.
Some locals curled their lips at the idea while maintaining their holier-than-thou charade that declared all men to be equal.
Others, particularly those raised with Southern influence, were less forgiving, and less likely to care if anyone, including Mr. Fitzgerald, knew their true thoughts.
Waverly, if given the opportunity, would argue that it was no one’s business, and didn’t everyone have a little bit of someone else in their blood?
And if Waverly was being honest, she found Titus Fitzgerald to be enticing in a dangerous sort of way.
Perhaps because his occupation made dead people a large percentage of his social interaction.
Was it not strange to find a man who wielded ether attractive?
His appearance reduced her insides into a quivering puddle of nonsense.
His deeply toned skin was offset by the ice-blue of his eyes, and he—
“Miss Pembrooke.” Mr. Fitzgerald’s voice brought Waverly back to the present, and it was those very ice-blue eyes that bore into hers. He had lit a lantern. “You wished to retrieve a glass of milk?”
He extended his arm, offering her passage before him into the kitchen.
Where he’d retrieved a lantern and when he had lit it only proved how lost in her thoughts she had been.
A terrible habit. Waverly found herself wandering far into them at times, reliving events in the past as though they were happening just seconds ago.
Her aunt Cornelia had claimed there was something “flighty” about Waverly.
At times such as these, Waverly was hard-pressed to disagree.
It was as if she were entering another world entirely.
“Miss Pembrooke!”
Waverly gave her head a little shake. “Yes. Yes, thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“You may as well call me Titus,” he grumbled as she slipped past him, clutching his coat around her body.
Waverly’s stomach did a little flip. Such familiarity with the undertaker was rare. Mr. Fitzgerald—Titus—was not known for being friendly, warm, or inviting. He was an undertaker. He was eyed with suspicion. He was—
“Miss Pembrooke?”
There. She’d done it again. Traveled down a rabbit trail in her thoughts.
“Yes, Mr. . . . Titus. Milk. It’s supposed to be good for one’s constitution before one lies down to sleep.”
“You’ll sleep tonight?” He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.
Waverly was acutely aware that Titus was watching her as she retrieved the bottle of milk from the icebox, allowing the heavy door to click shut so as not to waste the cool air given off by the blocks of ice inside.
“I will try,” she reassured him. A little bit of irritation rose in her. Did he think she was squeamish? Well, she was, but Waverly had no intention of letting the undertaker in on her secret. She was no simpering female. No, she had willpower and—
“Miss Pembrooke.” This time the annoyance was undisguised. “Do you often drift away into your thoughts and stop all movement?”
Waverly realized then she had the milk bottle poised over a glass and had frozen in that position.
She could sense the warm blush rising up her neck.
She stiffened as she poured the milk. “I could ask that a little mercy be extended to me.” The milk sloshed in the glass.
“My guardians were just murdered in this very house.” Waverly set the bottle on the wooden table centered in the kitchen.
She met Titus’s stare and lifted her chin.
“Any other woman would have disregarded her uncle’s last wishes and left his remains here alone while taking comfort in the home of a friend or acquaintance.
Please give me some credit for not doing so. ”
“You should do that.” Titus pushed off the doorframe with his shoulder and strode across the kitchen, the lamp in his hand the only light in the room. Its flame danced in the glass chimney, turning his features warmer than his tone. “You should leave this house at once.”
Waverly’s brow furrowed. “Leave? And defy my uncle’s will?” She decided not to add And who would take me in? She would prefer that Titus view her as stubborn, not on the verge of destitution.
“Anyone in their right mind would see how ridiculous Leopold Traeger’s last wishes are. No one should leave a woman to stay in the place of his murder without protection.”
“I don’t need protection,” Waverly retorted.
“Yes, you do.”
She narrowed her eyes as the shadow-shrouded kitchen closed in on her and reaffirmed Titus’s observation of the potential dangers of remaining in Traeger Hall alone. “I will get a dog.”
Titus’s laugh was more of a snort. “A dog? You have a bell tower. Why not camp out there and, at the first sign of danger, ring the bell as your aunt did and then pray that the men of Newton Creek run faster to your aid than they did for your guardians?”
He was being facetious.
“You’re quite rude,” Waverly countered.
Titus set the lamp on the table and leaned toward her, bracing his palms on the tabletop.
“This place is unsafe, Miss Pembrooke. You know it. I know it. Even your uncle’s attorney, Mr. Grossman, knows it.
You’re an intelligent woman, as you’ve claimed on numerous occasions in our acquaintance this past year as we’ve rubbed shoulders at social gatherings and at church on Sunday mornings. ”
“You’ve noticed?” Waverly quipped.
“Your intelligence or you?” Titus asked.
Waverly felt warmth creep up her neck again.
Titus spared her the need to respond. “Prove to me your intelligence has not gone to waste. Find somewhere else to stay.”
She wasn’t sure why the undertaker cared so much.
He had no right to invade her private home in the middle of the night, but beyond that, his excuse that he wished to watch over her relatives’ dead bodies was above and beyond the role of an undertaker.
And had he been the one to stop the grandfather clock’s chimes?
That was another liberty not his to take.
Although there was a chance he was merely trying to do what no one else was doing—offering her protection.
The police had done nothing of the sort.
Perhaps Titus was here, invading Traeger Hall in the dead of night, for self-serving reasons. Perhaps he had imagined her lying on his undertaker’s table, dead as a doornail. Her skin cold, staring at the ceiling with blank unseeing eyes, and her wounds would be—
“Waverly!” Titus’s voice was sharp, and he was not disguising his mounting frustration. He snapped his fingers in front of her face, and Waverly startled.
Blast her wayward thoughts!
She lifted her glass and took a long drink of milk.
The coat Titus had given her for modesty’s sake slipped from her shoulders, exposing her neck and upper chest. Embarrassed, Waverly tried to put the glass back on the table while adjusting the coat to cover herself.
The glass wobbled, then tilted, finally finishing its dance by tipping over and spilling the milk.
It flooded the tabletop and dripped onto the floor and her bare feet.
Waverly glanced at Titus, whose mouth was set in a firm, disapproving line. His eyes flickered downward to her exposed neckline.
The air grew thick, even as it remained cool between them.
Titus reached for the lamp. “Cover yourself, Miss Pembrooke. Your clavicle is showing.”
Ignoring the spilled milk, Waverly struggled to cover herself with the wool coat, not missing the fact that Titus Fitzgerald was remarkably boorish and bossy. No wonder he worked with the dead. No one alive would want anything to do with him, even if he was the most handsome creature on earth.
Waverly
In an interview shortly before her death in 1950; memories from two weeks prior to the murders:
The tension between Aunt Cornelia and Uncle Leopold was thicker than local gossip Widow Gorski’s midsection, which was no small accomplishment.
I took a sip of my morning tea as I eyed my guardians over the rim of the cup, sitting quietly on the springy settee in the parlor. Their conversation was cordial but laced with so many undertones that I was hard-pressed to ascertain who was more aggravated by the other.
“You really mean to have Preston Scofield stay with us again?” Aunt Cornelia was not fond of Uncle Leopold’s assistant, who came to Traeger Hall from time to time and invaded the place as another pompous male figure.