19
The moment I’m in my bedroom, all my tears dry and I feel a little lighter. Not light, but lighter.
The lavish familiarity of my bedchamber is a world away from mouldy apartments and dusty motel rooms.
Beneath the silvery chandeliers, I wander around the bedchamber, and graze my fingertips along the polished tables, the buttery soft Chesterfield sofa, the smooth mantle above the unlit fireplace, even the sage-green wallpaper with soft white flower patterns.
I touch every piece of furniture in the room, drop the folder onto my desk beside the family photo that stands in a crystal frame, until I finally wander to the two doors in the corner of the room.
I open the door to my left, and it opens to a wardrobe with a fluffy rug that spans wall to wall, that feels like feathers under the scruffy canvas shoes on my feet, and that lights up with glittering lights when I flick the switch.
Not a wardrobe like any I’ve had in years.
Not a musty old wooden cupboard with racks and rails that bow under the weight of my clothes.
It’s a room in its own right.
A faint, tired smile breaks through the exhaustion and curves my lips.
My hand lifts to feel along the clothes that won’t fit me anymore.
Cashmere and cotton and linen and wool and silk.
A caress against my fingertips, buttery and smooth.
Now, I understand how it must feel to be in one of those perfume adverts on the television all the time, to be caressed by luxury. This is that.
I come around the shelves of my shoes, all dust-free and glistening under the lights, but I turn my back on them—and the jewellery bench in the centre of the room lures me in with glittering winks.
I look down at the glass top—and the jewellery beneath it.
I pawned everything I took to Bluestone, which wasn’t much, not compared to the diamonds and gold and platinum and pearls in the glass case.
I drag my fingertips down the glass, over the necklace Mother gifted me for my sixteenth, encrusted with rubies.
That would have fetched more than the earrings and bracelets combined.
The diamond bracelet, as thick as a cuff, was a gift from Father on my eighteenth. It’s gaudy and I always hated it.
I prefer the bracelet beside it, a simple white gold chain speckled with diamonds and crushed rubies.
That one was from Dray.
But the centre piece is a slight mound—with no tiara to fit onto it.
Grandmother Ethel never passed it down to me.
Guess she didn’t get the chance.
It’s meant to be worn as a representation of the Cravens on my wedding day. My groom would wear his family crest on his cufflinks.
But there’s no groom, no wedding day, and no tiara to admire—and honestly, I’m not so sure Grandmother Ethel was ever going to hand it over.
I might have to pry it out of her strong, spidery hands if the time comes.
If.
One giant if.
I’m not exactly in the courting pool anymore. I don’t see my wedding day on the horizon.
I’ve been gone too long.
I’m a spinster now, even though I’m only twenty-six. All my peers will be married. The soon-to-be graduates will already have their offers and contracts locked in. And that leaves me to the widowers.
So I’m the spinster sister who will live at Elcott Abbey—unless Father’s disappointment reaches so deep into his festering soul that he discards me to live with Nonna or Grandmother Ethel.
I feel a slight wedge of disappointment.
“Miss Olivia.”
Startled, I fling my gaze to the door.
Abigail has lifted a pin to my bubble of daydreaming, and popped it. Dressed in plain servant breeches and a waistcoat, her scarlet hair pulled into a bun, she stands patiently in the doorway.
I blink at her, like I’m only remembering her entire existence right now in this very moment, and it’s an odd mess in my head to have it all rushing back to me.
She looks much the same as I last saw her.
Time hasn’t been as kind to me.
I don’t need to look at myself in the gold framed mirror on the wall to know that.
My greeting isn’t formal—or kind.
I look her up and down then, with a scoff, turn my cheek to her.
Abigail keeps her gaze downcast, her hands clasped properly at her midsection.
I haven’t forgotten. It’s all rushing back to me now, her betrayal.
She handed over the deadblood book to Mr Younge. My father was furious, cut me out of the New Year celebrations, and my mother even struck me.
The anger that’s stirring in me at the sight of her feels ancient and ugly.
I turn my cheek to her. “Run me a bath.” My tone is curt and sharp, and rife with old resentment. “And the room is cold.”
The imps should have been up in my room to light the fire in the hearth before I got in.
I don’t see her bow, but there’s a pause before her bootsteps leave the walk-in. A few moments pass before I hear the familiar rush of bathwater.
I pick out the only pieces that I think will fit me. Loose bed shorts, a cotton strappy top that is stretchable enough, and a pair of thick socks.
I follow the sound of the running bathwater into the ensuite and walk into a room of steam.
I don’t like the fan on while I’m in the tub. It brings a draught in. And just because Abigail remembers that doesn’t mean I’ll warm to her.
I stomp into the warm mist, and each cross step takes me closer to the white leather bench I used to sit on while I applied my lotions.
I drop the clothes onto it, then start to strip off the harsh, scratchy material suffocating my body.
No bubbles rise with the bathwater.
I’m almost disappointed—then I see the trolley beside the tub. Filled with lotions and oils and balms.
Abigail lifts a glass bottle from the silver trolley, then holds the dropper over the rising water.
She drips beads of oil into it.
She’s not preparing a bath for my pleasure or enjoyment.
This is a practical wash, with water infused with brews that will ease the tension out of my body as expertly as the hands of a masseuse, a bath that will moisturise my dry skin, replenish the hydration of my hair, and restore balance to my complexion.
The breath I release is soft.
It is content.
Without argument, I climb into the tub.
And I soak.
I soak for so long that my eyelids are pulling down, that—without a stash of sleep brews from Oliver—I’m starting to release all that adrenaline and tension and anxiety… and I might just drift off.
But I don’t.
I blink my heavy eyelids open.
In the mist of the room, Abigail massages shampoo deep into my scalp. It’s hard to stop the moan from ribboning through me.
Bliss.
Absolute bliss.
I’ve always loved this part of my baths. But I really never knew how much I needed it until now—until I’ve gone without it for so long.
She rinses out the suds with warm water from a porcelain jug. I watch her in the mirror, steamy and distorted. Then she works some droplets of oil into my hair, section by section, the kind that isn’t meant to be washed out.
On the run, I used conditioner. A lot. Too much. And my hair shows the damage of the cheapness of it.
Abigail tries to repair it.
It’s pointless, really. I’ll need an expert.
Mother will have noticed.
I expect to be attacked by a hairdresser any minute now.
“Where is my mother?” I ask—now that the steam has faded into wisps, and time has passed, but she hasn’t come to me.
Abigail says, “The party moved to the parlour after dinner service.”
“The party,” I echo, my mouth curling slowly with each enunciation. Because that means the Sinclairs haven’t left yet. “And Father?”
“In his office with Master Oliver,” she says, running a comb through my treated hair.
My answer is a curt hum.
Still trying to work out what to do with me, I suppose. Father and Oliver deliberating where to send me, or if they should keep me here.
It’s not like I can be locked up in my bedchamber for the rest of my life. They need a plan that extends beyond the immediate.
Abigail clips my hair to my head, then her hands leave me.
I listen to the soft thuds of her footsteps around the bathroom, until she returns to my side with a silk dressing gown.
I clammer out of the tub and water splashes all over the tiles. Maybe I’m too tired, my limbs too clumsy and heavy, or I’ve lost layers of my mask over the years.
Abigail takes care of everything.
She dries my hair as I sit on the bench, she lotions my body, then massages a very light retinol lotion into my face.
I’m primped and dry by the time I’m pulling on the strappy top and comfortable shorts that hug my backside a bit more than they should.
Abigail kneels on the tiles as she fits on my socks.
I look down at her. “Why are you still here?”
Abigail lifts a crimson frown to me. “Pardon, Miss Olivia?”
“You’re my dresser. But you are still here. Have you been here all these years waiting for me to come home?”
Her smile is tight, it’s proper. “No, Miss Olivia. I am assigned to Mistress Craven, now.”
My face falls.
My insides sink.
Fucking Asta.
I’m whirled back to Bluestone, Asta digging through her trunk, searching for her ski gear, complaining about her dresser. A dresser who, after the engagement with Dray ended, decided to not do her job so well.
A climber servant.
They aren’t uncommon. They latch onto the status of their employers.
And, now, Asta has taken my dresser.
Abigail got herself a nice promotion.
I scoff and shake my head.
Rats climbing up the ladder of Elcott.
I almost say something—maybe say exactly that, but then a thud echoes through the bedchamber.
A thud that sounds so distant that, if the exhaust fans were on, neither Abigail nor I would have heard it.
But we both do.
She glances up at me with that faint furrowed brow of hers, then looks over her shoulder at the door.
Then, the thud comes again.
“Someone’s at the door,” I tell her, and my tone isn’t very kind.
Abigail dips her head, then pushes up from the floor.
I leave the bathroom in a mess of water puddles and wisps of steam and discarded clothes, and I follow her to the ensuite door.
But I go no further.