Chapter 3
Laborers paused their hammering to mutter about the crofter who vanished overnight, his door left swinging and blood staining the snow, fueling fears that some ravenous shadow from the woods had claimed another soul under the moon’s watchful gaze.
The housekeeper’s stride was steady, neither rushed nor languid, but Verity struggled to match it. Her legs felt like jelly after everything she had been through.
The corridor they entered was paneled in dark oak, each step echoing off stone floors polished to a gray gloss.
A brass sconce sent oblong shadows slanting across the wall, animating the carved wood with a suggestion of life.
The effect was as if the carved wolves and stags along the baseboards might leap free at any moment to pace beside her.
“Mind the runner, it snags,” Mrs. Harrow said without looking back, and true enough, the edge of a carpet caught at Verity’s boot as if to test her.
She lifted her hem and stepped lightly over the hazard, conscious that everything here, from the rugs to the portraits glaring down from the stairwells, would be watching for her first misstep.
“My apologies for the abruptness of your arrival,” Mrs. Harrow said.
Her voice, though not warm, had a quality Verity recognized from her childhood.
A patient, ingrained decency, the tone of someone used to smoothing household frictions before they could spark.
“We’ve little enough staff, and what there is, mostly go home at dusk.
The castle is …” here she paused, as if to weigh her words, “not as lively as it once was.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Harrow, I require little more than a bed, good bread, and a task to keep me occupied. After a week on the road, being in this house is a blessing.”
Mrs. Harrow’s mouth twitched upward. “I’ve heard that before. Though not from a woman of your age, and not here.” She stopped at a cross-corridor, then turned to study Verity full on. “You’re from Somerset, aren’t you?”
The question, so casually placed, made Verity’s chest tighten. She forced herself not to clutch at her skirt. “Indeed,” she said, feigning ease. “Is it so very obvious?”
Mrs. Harrow gave a small, approving nod. “Just a shade of your speech. I thought I caught it in the way you say house.” Her gaze lingered a moment longer, searching. “We don’t often get women from that far south.”
Verity’s pulse stuttered. Did this mean Mrs. Harrow had heard the rumors already? Did she know?
She pushed back the unpleasant memories her mind had so unhelpfully summoned. No, it had to be an observation. One as much about herself as Verity. She let out a shaky breath and forced a half-smile.
Mrs. Harrow’s lips compressed, not unkindly. She continued onward, leading them down a narrower passage, up a flight of uneven steps that curved dizzyingly within a turret. The walls here were rougher, original stone in places, the air colder and laced with a faint tang of wet mortar.
They emerged onto a landing that jutted into space, ringed by high windows set with diamond-shaped panes. Verity slowed, drawn by the pull of a gray blustery view beyond the glass.
The land sloped steeply away from the house, rolling toward a dense, black-green forest. The tops of the pines wove together into a shuddering sea, pale mist threading the gaps between their needles. It was beautiful … and a little terrifying.
She realized, with a lurch, just how high she was. The drop to the snow-crusted garden below must be three or four stories. No wonder the cold bit through the glass with such tenacity.
The housekeeper stopped in front of a heavy oak door, turning to Verity with an expression of regret. “Your room is in the countess’s apartment, so I’m afraid you’ll be meeting her before you can clean up.”
Verity gave a nod of acknowledgment, and Mrs. Harrow rapped lightly on the thick wood. “It’s Mrs. Harrow, my lady. I have brought Miss Hale.”
The door opened without sound, and they entered. The dowager’s apartments were a world apart from the drafts and austerity outside. The air, at once warmer and faintly perfumed, carried a hint of lavender water.
Rugs in blue and crimson sprawled over every inch of floor. A fire leapt in a tiled hearth, heat pooling around a cluster of padded chairs and a table strewn with what looked like half a year’s worth of stitching and mending.
The windows along the outer curve of the tower were hung with thick, dark velvet, but one was drawn back. Under this illumination, the dowager sat working on her embroidery, spectacles perched at the tip of her nose, her graying hair drawn back in a net of silk and silver.
For a moment, she seemed so slight and brittle, Verity thought her easily breakable as porcelain. But then she looked up, and her eyes, dark and glittering, fixed on Verity with such directness that she immediately revised her impression. Not fragile, but fierce.
“Here she is, my lady,” Mrs. Harrow said, stepping aside to present Verity. “Miss Hale, of Somerset, as you requested.”
“Not the one with the squint, then,” said the dowager in a surprisingly deep, resonant voice. She beckoned. “Come closer, Miss Hale. Let’s have a proper look.”
Verity advanced, aware of every fold and stain on her traveling dress. She dropped into a smooth, low curtsy, rising as the dowager extended a hand. The fingers were dry and papery, but the grip was unexpectedly strong.
“Turn,” commanded Lady Blackfen, “slowly, if you please.”
Verity obeyed, cheeks warming.
The old woman regarded her with frank appraisal. “Slim but sound. Decent bones. Strong legs, you’ll need those. Eyes clear.” She sniffed. “Hair a bit wild, but we can subdue that. You’ll do, Miss Hale. If you’re not a liar or a sneak. Are you a sneak?”
Verity blinked, caught off guard. “No, my lady.”
The countess nodded, apparently accepting this reply. “Good. Do you faint at the sight of blood?”
Verity recalled the blood spattered over the village green. “No, my lady.”
“Excellent,” said Lady Blackfen with a dismissive wave. “You are able to have children, aren’t you?”
“Oh.” The abrupt swerve in topic left Verity groping. “I assume so, my lady.”
“Do you take fits?” the dowager demanded.
“No, my lady.”
“Any fevers in your family? Or melancholia or the French disease?”
“No, my lady.” Verity tried not to betray a blush at the last, though she knew what was meant.
“Good, good. You are slight, but you have the look of a breeder about you. Have you had the smallpox?”
“I have, my lady. As a child.”
The countess seemed pleased. “Leaves the complexion freckled but the constitution strong.” She nodded, inspecting her with interest. “You are not married?”
“No, my lady.”
“Betrothed?”
“No.”
Apparently satisfied, the countess leaned back in her chair. She paused a few seconds, her eyes growing distant. “In my youth, I would never have allowed a young girl as handsome as you to haunt the corridors of Blackfen, tempting wolfish appetites.”
“Oh.” Verity did not know what to say. Was this meant as a compliment? She decided it must be, in the old woman’s own way.
A long moment of silence passed.
The dowager’s eyes were now glazed over. She spoke slowly. “The last companion they sent me was dull. Constantly speaking of her chilblains and the weather.”
Mrs. Harrow’s face twitched, as if she struggled to hide her amusement. “I do assure you,” she told Verity, “your time with Lady Blackfen will not be dull. It will help time pass in this remote location.”
Before she could respond, Verity’s stomach gave a plaintive gurgle.
“My apologies.” She pressed a hand to it, mortified. “I really am quite famished. All I’ve had today are biscuits and that was more than an hour ago. If it is not too much trouble, might I have some food sent up?”
“You’ll have a tray within half an hour.”
“Thank you.” Verity hesitated, then added, “And … my trunk?”
“Ephraim should bring it up shortly,” Mrs. Harrow replied. The housekeeper then turned to Lady Blackfen. “My lady, Miss Hale has had a long journey and might wish to refresh herself. I could see her settled in the room you directed, if you wish.”
“Of course, of course,” the dowager said, waving them off.
When they reached her room, Verity stepped through and froze. It was enormous, easily as large as her father’s entire parlor back in Somerset. A four-poster bed dominated the far end, hung with thick velvet drapes the color of a clear summer sky.
There was a window alcove with a navy cushioned seat, and a writing desk polished to a mirror shine.
Two upholstered indigo chairs flanked a small table, and a chest of drawers stood sentinel by the hearth.
The bed was turned down and made up with crisp linen sheets, a heavy coverlet folded neatly at its foot.
Verity scarcely believed her eyes. She had expected a closet, perhaps, or a drafty attic cot, not a chamber fit for a gentlewoman.
“It’s beautiful,” she said at last, voice small with awe.
Mrs. Harrow gave a little hum of satisfaction. “Do let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you very much,” Verity said, meaning it.
Left alone, Verity moved from one marvel to the next, running her hands over the bed curtains, testing the padded window seat, peering at the marquetry on the writing desk.
On the mantel above the hearth, she found a row of leather-bound books in teal and gold, a small vase with dried lavender, and a candle in a pewter holder shaped like a wolf’s head.
She sank into one of the chairs, letting her back relax for the first time in days. The quiet was delicious.
Shortly after the maid brought in the promised jug, she was able to wash up before heading back to the dowager’s rooms. Lady Blackfen was waiting, awake and watchful, as she entered.
“There you are,” the old woman said. “Sit and pour me tea.”
Verity poured, glad to have a simple task. The tea was dark and strong, cut with a thread of lemon. She passed the cup to the dowager, who sipped it with a regal tilt of her head.