Chapter 9
Nine
The fire inside controlled her now that Agnes was left alone with the man here to snoop around her house. She wanted to stomp her feet like an insolent child. She was furious at Richard, furious at Charles, and furious at Mr. Evans. Unfortunately for him, Mr. Evans was the only one here.
How wrong she had been to think the man was on her side. It was clear now that he wore two faces. Ida’s warning hadn’t been as melodramatic as Agnes had thought. She shouldn’t trust him.
She resolved to make his intended task as difficult as possible. If he thought he could just make a list of everything to be handed over to Charles while she stood idly aside, he was mistaken.
Mr. Evans was trembling again, unable to meet her gaze. Sweat beaded at the ends of the hairs of his mustache, and his whole face glistened.
But she would take no pity on him. As far as she was concerned, at this moment, this was his fault.
Richard had chosen him as the executor of the will over that curmudgeon of a solicitor.
It had seemed like a reasonable choice at the time.
Richard had hated the solicitor, and Mr. Evans had been Richard’s accountant and advisor for nine years.
Her husband had depended on him to make sound decisions. And Mr. Evans had failed.
“Lady Skelton?” His voice was tender. He was treating her like a lost puppy he was trying to coax from its hiding place, yet he was the one who looked scared. She hadn’t even seen him blink. He just stared ahead, eyes wide and breaths troubled.
“What?” she snapped. Her tone was unladylike—and unkind—but so be it.
He couldn’t cower behind his weakness now, not after he had so boldly volunteered himself to poke through her possessions, fulfilling his role to ensure his employer didn’t miss getting his greedy hands on anything he could sell.
She should calm herself, but when Mr. Evans remained silent, her tongue kept rolling.
“Where would you like to begin? Should we begin in the apothecary? That seems to be what Charles is most eager to steal from under my feet. Or would you like to be shown into my bedchamber?”
The mention of her bedchamber caused the man to choke. She kept on. “You can count every pair of my drawers. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss a single one in your inventory.”
Mr. Evans appeared close to suffering an apoplexy. Any chance he had at forming words was long gone. Perhaps she shouldn’t embarrass the man any further, now that he matched the hue of the red sage she had collected from her garden this morning.
He removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his brow. Letting out a disgusted scoff, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, do follow me, Mr. Evans.”
She left the parlor, not stopping to see if the insufferable man was behind her. She took the steps to the attic two at a time.
Outside the door, she paused, giving him a moment to catch up, until she sensed him waiting on the step behind her. His presence was as powerful as the unseen entity that had lurked in this stairwell this morning, but she wasn’t afraid. She just felt him.
Agnes hesitated. It would be strategic to hide her most valuable items from him. But something in her heart led her to trust him, even enough to let him into the one place that meant the most to her in this world.
As her temper subsided, his fault in the situation seemed less consequential. He had come to her defense when Charles had raised questions about her marriage to Richard.
Richard was the one who had not kept his promises.
Six years did not seem such a long time in exchange for lifelong protection, but they were six significant years for a woman.
At this age, she was a spinster, and a social outcast to boot.
She should have spent her youth looking for a husband who would have lived long enough to protect her.
Instead she spent it hiding away, concocting teas, foraging plants, and mixing poultices.
Pushing the door open, she nodded for Mr. Evans to enter first. The warmth of his body as he shuffled past her up the steps caused a surprising sensation to whirl through her body. She inhaled his scent after he passed, a blend of ink, balsam, and vanilla.
The room was dimly lit and cast in shadows, with only one round window allowing little light to pass through. At this time of day, the sun had already set behind the city’s buildings, low on the horizon.
Mr. Evans carefully approached the center of the room before turning to examine each corner. She wondered what he thought of the earthy scent of the creeping herbs hanging from the pots crammed onto the shelves along the wall.
She lit the oil lamp on the center of her work table.
The attic hadn’t been fitted with the same overly bright gas lamps as the rest of the house.
The flicker reflected off the glass equipment stored on the opposite wall.
All of this—the flasks, mortars, burners, and vials upon vials she filled with her remedies—might be gone, stolen from her to make money at the expense of people who needed help.
Her stomach lurched as she noticed her most recent journal lay open on the table.
It contained the recipes Edith had taught her, knowledge shared by generations of herbalists, healers, and cunning folk.
They were written by Agnes’s own hand. Surely there was no way that they would be considered estate property.
She would destroy them before she let anyone sell them away.
Richard had jokingly referred to each journal she filled as her tome.
They were large, heavy books, pages thick from her observations.
Her completed journals, stuffed with as many loose papers and diagrams as the spine would allow, were stacked on the bookcase.
Almost all of what she learned was secured in her memory, but the journals were a testament to her craft.
So they sat on her shelf, loved but untouched.
She bent down to look at the small case under her work table.
Mr. Evans stepped back toward the door, before stumbling away from her like he was hit by the gust of an unseen storm.
Ridiculous. Among the rows of meticulously organized tinctures, she found what she was looking for and pulled it from the line.
“Here, Mr. Evans. Open your mouth.”
“Umm . . . sure . . . wait, what?” Not only was he a trembling mess, he couldn’t seem to follow any instruction.
“Open your mouth,” she commanded again, placing her hand on her hip.
This time he did as he was told without hesitating. Oddly, he closed his eyes too, like a child waiting for a surprise.
She inserted a dropper into the vial and released three drops of a passionflower tincture into his mouth. It startled him. His eyes opened, and he pounded his chest. The alcohol she used to extract the flowers’ benefits sometimes burned as it went down.
“Look at me.” His eyes, looking more silver than blue in the low light, settled on hers.
She gasped, but she refused to allow herself to get worked into a fluster.
She had to be the sensible one. His eyes softened, and he looked almost sleepy, like he was caught in a dream.
His breathing slowed to match hers. All of a sudden it felt too intimate.
Her muscles tensed in preparation to step back, but she chose to stay.
Surrendering to the calmness, any anger she had felt for him in the last few minutes faded away. Eventually the haze in his eyes cleared, and he focused on her face. Agnes felt seen. She could see herself mirrored in his pupils.
“Lady Skelton.” His voice was husky. “That meeting did not go as expected. And I had no idea that this space . . .” He looked around the room. While others might see a creaky attic full of a madwoman’s unstable experiments, Mr. Evans seemed mesmerized. “I did not realize how magnificent it is.”
Magnificent. She had let him into the most sacred part of her, and it had affected him.
Agnes wanted to stare at him longer while he inspected her apothecary with admiration, but she needed to get back to work.
“My reaction to you staying behind was harsh, but I do not understand why you need to take inventory of my home. It has to be within a widow’s rights to keep her personal belongings. ”
“I couldn’t leave without ensuring you were all right after that meeting.” Mr. Evans looked away as he made his confession.
Agnes could feel her smile trying to break through, but she didn’t allow it. She wasn’t a simpering young miss anymore, nor was this man courting her. He was looking after her welfare, because he was kind and Richard had probably asked him to.
He pointed to the vial in her hand, and his fingers hovered above her own. “What was that?” She watched his hand, wanting to reach out just to feel his skin. His nails were tidy, just like the rest of his appearance, but a shadow of ink stains hinted at his profession.
“It’s a tincture of passionflower. It works to calm your nerves, much like the tea. You didn’t seem like you were in an appropriate state to sit down and drink a cup. This was easier to deliver.”
“Is this what you make here?” He pulled his eyes from hers, and she missed the intimacy.
But as he knelt by her vials, examining the labels, she discovered she liked having him here.
“Tell me more about what you do. Anything that might help me argue this is personal property and not part of the estate.”
Where did one start when explaining their life’s passion?
This had all begun the moment Edith had found her and started her training.
But events before that had led her to the old woman who had once been a stranger to her.
He would be here all night, which was not an unappealing idea.
Before she could begin, there was a knock on the open door.
Ward poked his head in. “Lady Skelton, Miss Malone is here about her tinctures.”