Chapter 17 #3
He was right before her now, standing on the kitchen flagstones so that she, on the final step, was eye level with him. Heat came off him like the stove in the corner.
“I’ll take the nerve tonic,” she said breathlessly. “You’re right. I’ll take a dose tonight—”
“Try a bit of this,” he interrupted, leaning the tray on the newel-post beside her and unstopping the bottle. He poured a finger-width draft into two cups. “It’ll get you through supper, at least, without dropping a tray.”
Mary Jane had slumped to the floor. No, no, she could not. “I thought it was only for the guests.”
Rab shrugged and held out one of the cups. She took it reluctantly. “You’ve been here a while, Miss Huxley. Mrs. Easton clearly trusts you. Trusts you more than the last kitchen maid, who was always slipping the silverware into her pockets. So whether you like it or not, you’re part of the family.”
The word reverberated in her skull. Her mouth tasted like copper. Had he heard Sergeant Corbet ask for Miss Foster? Did he know—or guess—she was Charlie’s sister?
Rab raised his own cup and clinked it against hers. “To family,” he said, flashing her a wicked grin. He tossed back the liquid and swallowed with a grimace.
She had no choice. Rab was watching her, the yellow in his eyes glowing. If she refused, whatever he suspected would be confirmed.
She lifted the cup.
The smell was bitter and floral. It filled her nose, her throat, before the liquid passed her lips.
She swallowed only half of it, but the effect was instantaneous.
—
Caroline had tasted champagne and rum punch at country dances.
She had drunk snifters of port and canary and even once, at Eloise’s, a glass of pear liquor that smelled like perfume.
One night while her father was away, Caroline had helped herself to a sip of the scotch he kept in his study.
She had spat the foul stuff in the dirt of a potted palm, but its peaty smokiness had lingered on her tongue for hours afterward.
Alcohol made her warm, giddy. It soothed the anxiety of conversing with strangers.
It made her bolder—after two coupes of Kir royale at a country ball last September, she had allowed Eloise’s older brother Barnaby to kiss her on the mouth against a box hedge.
His lips were wet and fleshy, and as soon as she could make an excuse she had returned to the party.
Rab’s liquor was not like that.
The alcohol washed over her like a wave, quenching her fear and softening her muscles. She leaned against the banister, dropped her hand from the reassuring outline of the penknife.
“How do you feel?” Rab was watching her carefully. He was so close, close enough that she could pick out the texture of stubble on his cheeks, the saliva shining on his teeth.
“I feel…I feel fine,” she said. It was the truth.
She felt better than fine. This was what he had given Mary Jane.
It must be. The concoction was stronger than Dr. Hoffman’s medicine, much stronger.
It was as though all her anxieties had been plunked into a warm bathtub.
She had been so afraid! So frightened to eavesdrop on the party from the safe darkness of the servants’ staircase.
So worried she would be caught. The plan remained, but the fear was gone. She felt like laughing.
Rab was staring at her, examining her, and even through the lovely fogginess clouding her brain, she witnessed something cross his face. Something naked. Tender.
“What?” Caroline asked. Her voice sounded distant in her ears. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” Rab shook his head, the expression buried. “Let’s get you back upstairs.”
Don’t sleep.
Caroline sat alone in the blackness of the servants’ staircase. Not even the din of masculine voices echoing up from the dining room half a flight below could keep her eyes open.
She pinched the skin of her forearm. She forced her eyelids to part.
Don’t sleep. Listen, listen.
Rab had kept his word, had helped her load the dumbwaiter and carry the lighter dishes up to the dining room. Her feet had felt heavy, the light and sound of the supper party overwhelming.
Caroline fumbled her way through the supper service. She had dribbled wine down the sides of glasses, mistaken the bordelaise for the sauce Robert. Whenever she glanced up, through the pleasant numbness in her head, she’d found Rab’s golden eyes watching her.
As soon as the roast was sliced, Mrs. Easton pulled her aside.
“I’ll fetch the cake. Go up to bed, now. I can see you’re dead tired. The dishes will keep till tomorrow. And don’t forget: Lock your door.”
Caroline had mumbled some reply, staggered into the staircase, and sat down here.
She focused all her remaining faculties on listening to the conversation below. But with every heartbeat, her ability to move—even to think—slipped away.
Her tongue felt foreign, swollen. Her feet and hands seemed miles away.
Don’t sleep, said a small, distant voice in the back of her head. Don’t sleep. Charlie, Charlie…
Her head dropped against the wall. Her breathing steadied.
In the room below her, a dozen chairs pushed back from the table.