Lady Midnight by Amanda Mccabe Page B

her fingertips over the plush green velvet upholstery as she remembered the morning just past. When she first awoke in her new bed, she couldn't shake off a sense of confusion, disorientation. Her sleep was so full of dreams, strange visions of the sea, of gardens, of crazed sheep chasing her across gray landscapes. They cast their sticky-cobweb spell over her even when she opened her eyes, and for an instant she imagined she was back in Venice.
    Where is Bianca with my chocolate? she had thought irritably, pulling the bedclothes up over her head.
    But the sheets were not her own blue, monogrammed silk, and there were no gondolier songs or slapping of water outside her window. And she remembered. Venice was gone. She was in Yorkshire, at a house called Thorn Hill. The home of the archangel Michael.
    As she burrowed deeper under the bedclothes, she recalled everything—especially their walk in the garden, all alone in the moonlight. The way he watched her, as if he could discover all her secrets just by studying her face. The way he smiled, with those beguiling, unexpected dimples. How warm and strong his touch was when his hand lightly brushed her arm as they walked.
    It was dizzying, almost like another dream. Yet it was real; he was real—not like the insane sheep she fled in her sleep.
    Sheep might actually be preferable.
    Kate heard a click at the latch of her bedroom door then, and pulled the bedclothes away from her face to see a young, freckle-faced maid coming into the chamber bearing a tray of rolls and tea. All she could think was praise be to San Marco that she wouldn't have to face the Lindley family over the breakfast table! She would have a few more hours to compose herself.
    "Good morning, miss," the maid greeted cheerfully when she saw that Kate was awake. She put the tray down on the bedside table and hurried over to open up the window draperies. The light that poured in was weak and pale, but not gray as it was yesterday. "My name is Sarah, and Mrs. Jenkins said I was to bring you breakfast, and see if you need any help this morning."
    "Mrs. Jenkins?" Kate said stupidly. The rigid old housekeeper had actually sent someone up to help her, the governess?
    Odd. Someone, probably Lady Darcy, must have ordered her to do it.
    "Yes, Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper," Sarah said. She poured out a steaming cup of brown, bracing-looking tea and passed it to Kate. "You met her yesterday, miss." Sarah suddenly giggled, and clapped her hand to her mouth. "Oh, no! You're not a miss, are you? You're a missus. Mrs. Brown. I beg your pardon."
    "That's quite all right," Kate answered, bemused. She had never met a young housemaid quite so giggly before. Or so fidgety. Sarah twitched at her apron, staring around at the room.
    "Here, Mrs. Brown, have a roll," Sarah said, plopping the warm, yeasty bread onto a plate. "Cook just made them—they're piping hot."
    "Thank you," Kate murmured. She took a nibble of the proffered roll, and it was indeed delicious, studded with currants and almond slivers. So far, every detail of this house was perfect. It was so much more than she surely deserved. A lovely room, welcoming people, a perfect currant roll—and all the time she was lying to them. Selfishly grasping at all they offered when she had nothing to give in return.
    The thought made the delicious bread turn to cold ash on her tongue. She put it back on the plate and took a long gulp of tea.
    "Hot water for washing is on the way," Sarah said, oblivious to Kate's sudden fit of conscience. "Can I do anything else for you, Mrs. Brown? I'm very good with hair. I dress Lady Christina's."
    Kate remembered Christina's wild mane of tangled curls and had to smile. That wasn't much of a boast. "Thank you, Sarah, but my hair is fairly easy for me to dress myself."
    Sarah obviously didn't want to leave, though. She kept on plucking at her apron, her gaze darting around the room. Perhaps she had an unpleasant task waiting for her, or maybe she