Chapter Four
Frida had not been exaggerating when she said they would be ready to leave at first light.
Indeed, the first rays of dawn had scarcely permeated the darkness when Esme was woken from her slumber by hurried footsteps and shouted instructions.
She pulled her blankets all the way over her head and determined to stay in bed for as long as possible, but a tentative knock sounded on her chamber door.
Quelling a deep surge of irritation, Esme sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Come in.”
The door creaked open, and a hovering candle appeared, floating less than three feet above the ground.
“Ye Gods.” Esme clutched at her blankets, recalling Frida’s past dalliances with the spirit world and fearing the worst.
“’Tis only Flora,” someone piped in a familiar voice.
Esme blinked and slowly the scene came into better focus. Her young niece stood in the doorway, holding both a candle and the small black cat that had been pestering Jonah yesterday.
“Come in.” Esme beckoned her in, yawning widely. She lit a taper and put a flame to her own night light, pleased to banish the shadows.
Flora balanced her candle on the trunk at the foot of the bed and clutched the cat closer. “Aunt Esme, can I ask a favor of you?”
“Anything.” Esme sat back against her pillows and smiled vaguely. The last vestiges of sleep still muddled her thoughts, though she had resigned herself to wakefulness.
“Will you take care of Felicity whilst I’m gone?”
Felicity?
Esme blinked.
“My cat,” Flora clarified, her big blue eyes fixed on Esme.
“Your cat?” Esme stretched her arms above her head and rotated her head. She had slept well enough but was accustomed to a softer mattress and thicker pillows. “Do cats do not fare very well for themselves?”
“Not this one,” Flora insisted. She had lost a tooth recently and spoke with a bit of a lisp. “Mama said she’s the runt of the litter and would have likely died if we didn’t look after her. She’s still not fully grown yet.”
Esme switched her gaze to the purring black cat in her niece’s arms. The cat gazed back without blinking.
“Mama says the journey is too long and it wouldn’t be fair to take her. Also, that she might run away and get lost.” Flora pressed her face to the cat’s fur, obviously disturbed by the idea.
“Felicity.” Esme straightened her blankets and tried to gather her thoughts. “That’s a very grand name for such a small cat.”
“Mama said I should name her for what I wanted her to be.”
Confused, Esme could only raise her eyebrows questioningly.
“I wanted her to grow big and strong,” Flora lisped. “And grand.” She smiled at the notion. “She was so little when I found her.”
“I see.” Esme swung her legs out from under the covers, wincing as her bare feet made contact with the wooden floorboards. Back home at Wolvesley, her bedchamber was laid with thick rugs and her lady’s maid would have put out goatskin slippers ready for her.
Here, she must fend for herself.
“Can you pass me my shawl?”
The child obliged, dragging the finely spun garment across the floor and then perching up on the bed beside her. Esme had no sooner pulled the shawl over her shoulders than Flora unceremoniously dumped the cat onto her lap.
“She likes you.” Flora was delighted.
“Does she?” Esme looked dubiously down at the small creature, who had begun to knead her night rail with sharp claws. “Ouch,” she exclaimed.
Flora giggled. “She only does that to people she likes.”
Esme fought an instinctive urge to tip the cat off her knees. She thought of her fine silken gowns and the damage this creature would wreak upon them. Then she looked down at her niece—with her shining golden hair and neatly tied travelling cloak—and knew that she could not refuse her.
Flora stroked the cat’s jet-black fur. “Felicity does not like many people. Only Mama and Papa and me.”
“Not Jonah?” Esme flung out, more in hope than expectation.
“Felicity likes Uncle Jonah. But Uncle Jonah says she disturbs his writing.”
“I see.” Resigned to her fate, Esme joined Flora in stroking the cat’s smooth fur and was gratified when Felicity arched her back in pleasure.
“Will you take care of her for me?” Flora tipped her head upwards and Esme saw glassy tears reflected in the candlelight.
“Of course I will.” She circled one arm around the little girl’s shoulders and drew her closer. “I will take the very best care of her. Until the day you return. Then, you and Felicity will have both grown bigger and stronger.” The cat now rubbed its cheek against Esme’s fingers, purring loudly.
“Do you think she might forget me?” Flora rested her head on Esme’s arm, and Esme’s heart turned over.
“Most certainly not. Cats have very long memories,” she invented quickly.
Mayhap they did? Esme had very little experience of the matter. Back home at Wolvesley, cats were kept only in the barns, helping to keep them free of vermin.
But this particular creature seemed to possess both intelligence and personality. It sat primly on Esme’s knee, looking up at her as if claiming her.
“Do not worry about us, Flora. Felicity and I will be just fine.”
Flora bit down on her lip. “Can I take her now? Just until we get into the carriage?”
“Of course.”
Flora scooped up her cat and walked toward the door.
“Thank you, Aunt Esme.”
“You’re welcome.”
Flora closed the door behind her and Esme sighed.
The care of one small cat was a small price to pay for the chance to stay here, just as she had wished.
A triumph she owed to the mysterious warrior from Callum’s past. He had showed neither charm nor manners in the great hall, but his acceptance of her request had granted her a reprieve. More time away from Wolvesley, to wait for Crispin’s arrival.
More time to consider your options, her mind whispered traitorously in her ear.
Grimacing, Esme paced over to the window and moved aside the oilcloth.
The darkness of night had morphed into the milky light of dawn, allowing her to make out the shape of a carriage and pair waiting by the front door.
Behind it was a cart, half-filled with luggage.
Voices floated up from the courtyard and a dog barked with excitement.
A lone figure barreled through the front door holding an enormous trunk against his chest.
“Steady there,” someone cautioned. Esme recognized the voice as Callum’s.
“I have it,” came the reply.
It was the mysterious warrior, Esme realized. He had lifted a heavy-looking trunk and was carrying it with ease. He walked with long strides over to the waiting cart and deposited it in the back.
“Is there much else?”
His deep voice did something to her insides. His accent was not dissimilar to Callum’s; the broad vowels of north England mixed with just a trace of Scottish lilt.
She must thank him, for this reprieve he had granted her.
Esme released the oilcloth and spun from the window, newly filled with resolve.
She would don her loveliest gown and ensure she looked her best to make this speech of thanks.
She recalled the warrior’s disinterest yesterday; the way he had not responded to Callum’s entreaties, even though Callum later claimed that Adam was as close as kin.
Well, kin ofttimes ignored one another. She knew that well enough.
Still, Adam’s detachment meant he was a puzzle she was keen to solve.
But no sooner had she pulled a suitable gown from her closet than she realized her mistake. She needed a maid’s assistance to lace it, and ’twas unlikely any maid could be spared this morn. Even yesterday, when all was calm, the housemaid had helped her dress with an ill sort of grace.
Mayhap I should make more of an effort with the servants at Ember Hall.
What was the maid’s name? She looked familiar and perchance had served Frida for as long as Frida had resided here.
Esme frowned with effort. Frida always referred to her servants by name.
Jennifer. That was it.
But knowing her name altered naught. Frida and Callum were soon to depart, and Esme could not bid them farewell in her night clothes.
She selected a simple day dress in muted green which buttoned down the front, splashed cold water onto her cheeks from the pitcher, and dragged a comb through her long hair, wincing at the tangles.
There was not enough light to judge her reflection in the looking glass, so Esme had to assume her efforts were satisfactory.
Picking up her candle, she left the quiet of her bedchamber and stepped out into a house transformed by unfamiliar bustle.
The housemaid, Jennifer, scurried past, holding a pile of linens and muttering, “Beg pardon, milady.”
Grateful for the width of the gallery, Esme darted to the side and narrowly missed her nephew, Christopher, who was on his hands and knees by the paneled wall.
“Good gracious.” She put a hand to her racing heart.
“I’m looking for my ball.” Christopher looked entreatingly up at her.
Esme had rarely been called upon to be so helpful so early in the morning.
“What color is it?” She picked up her skirts and dropped to her knees beside him. Wall torches cast pools of light onto the gallery, but very little daylight came through the arched window at the end of the gallery.
“Blue.”
“How big?” she asked incredulously.
Christopher opened his hands, miming a ball the size of a chicken.
Esme remained skeptical. “I shall help you look.”
His smile of thanks melted her heart, despite the hardness of the floor beneath her knees.
She made slow progress crawling down the length of the gallery, running her hands over the notched floorboards in the hope of encountering Christopher’s lost ball.
She kept her eyes trained downwards, and did not notice the booted feet standing at the end of the gallery until she was almost upon them.
“I believe I have something of yours,” someone spoke with a deep, gravelly voice.
“My ball!” Christopher cried.