her candle. But at the last second she stopped and let it burn. Abigail settled under the bedclothes, the flickering light casting shadows on the papered walls. How she longed for her father’s return. The dark house would seem less frightening once he was there.
She closed her eyes but, hearing a door whine open somewhere, abruptly opened them. Polly , she told herself and turned over.
Then she heard a muffled tapping sound. Tapping—at this hour? It was only a branch tapping against a window, she speculated. Or perhaps a woodpecker in a tree nearby, looking for insects. Did birds do so after dark? She had no idea. They must, she decided, and turned over yet again.
In the distance, something clanged like a tiny cymbal, brass upon brass. Abigail lurched upright, her heart in her throat. A water can—someone dropped a water can. Or kicked one, accidentally in the dark.
But it was no good. She knew she’d never sleep until she checked. She turned back the bedclothes and climbed from bed, wrapping a shawl around herself and wiggling her feet into slippers. Picking up her candle, she opened the door and listened. Silence. She tiptoed into the gallery, avoiding the many pairs of eyes glaring down at her from portraits of Pembrookes long dead.
She heard the faint sound of retreating footsteps padding down the stairs.
Heart pounding, she gingerly leaned forward and peered over the stair rail, her candle’s light barely penetrating the darkness below. A hooded figure floated down the last few stairs. Stunned, she blinked. But when she looked again, the stairs were empty. She had probably only imagined the dark apparition.
With a shiver, she decided that was the last time she would read gothic fiction. It was back to architecture books for her.
She turned toward her room, but then changed course and crossed the gallery, lifting her candle to survey the closed doors until she spied one left ajar. There—the room that would be hermother’s. The same room in which she had seen an open drawer when William Chapman toured the house.
She inched the door farther open and lifted her candle. The drawers were closed this time. But . . . there on the dressing table a hinged jewelry box stood open, and beside it lay a brass candle lamp, on its side. Heart pounding, she walked forward and felt the wick. Still warm.
Trembling, Abigail padded down the back stairs. She could have pulled her cord, but the bells rang in the servants’ hall, and she preferred not to wake Mrs. Walsh. Nor was she eager to wait in the dark alone.
Reaching the former butler’s room belowstairs, which Duncan had claimed for himself, Abigail knocked.
She heard a groan from within, followed by the creak of bed ropes, and then the door opened a few inches. There stood Duncan, hair tousled and chest bare. She hoped he wore something below but did not dare look down.
“What is it?” he grumbled.
“Sorry to disturb you. But I’d like you to check the house and make sure all the doors are locked.”
“Already did. As I do every night.”
“It’s just . . . Mac warned me about intruders, and I thought I heard someone. Saw someone actually, and—”
“Saw what?”
“I . . . am not sure. But please check.”
He smirked. “Had a nightmare, did ya? Shall I bring you some hot milk?”
Irritation flashed. “Will you check the doors or must I wake someone else to do your job for you?”
He frowned. “No need to wake the whole house. Not when you’ve already woken me.”
She became aware then of the defensive way he held his door, only slightly ajar. She had at first thought he did so to shield his nakedness, but the longer he stood there without shirt or apparent modesty the more she doubted that was the real reason.
Good heavens! Had he brought some light-skirt into the house?
She narrowed her eyes. “Do you have someone in there with you?”
His head reared back in surprise. He looked over his shoulder into the room as if to
She closed her eyes but, hearing a door whine open somewhere, abruptly opened them. Polly , she told herself and turned over.
Then she heard a muffled tapping sound. Tapping—at this hour? It was only a branch tapping against a window, she speculated. Or perhaps a woodpecker in a tree nearby, looking for insects. Did birds do so after dark? She had no idea. They must, she decided, and turned over yet again.
In the distance, something clanged like a tiny cymbal, brass upon brass. Abigail lurched upright, her heart in her throat. A water can—someone dropped a water can. Or kicked one, accidentally in the dark.
But it was no good. She knew she’d never sleep until she checked. She turned back the bedclothes and climbed from bed, wrapping a shawl around herself and wiggling her feet into slippers. Picking up her candle, she opened the door and listened. Silence. She tiptoed into the gallery, avoiding the many pairs of eyes glaring down at her from portraits of Pembrookes long dead.
She heard the faint sound of retreating footsteps padding down the stairs.
Heart pounding, she gingerly leaned forward and peered over the stair rail, her candle’s light barely penetrating the darkness below. A hooded figure floated down the last few stairs. Stunned, she blinked. But when she looked again, the stairs were empty. She had probably only imagined the dark apparition.
With a shiver, she decided that was the last time she would read gothic fiction. It was back to architecture books for her.
She turned toward her room, but then changed course and crossed the gallery, lifting her candle to survey the closed doors until she spied one left ajar. There—the room that would be hermother’s. The same room in which she had seen an open drawer when William Chapman toured the house.
She inched the door farther open and lifted her candle. The drawers were closed this time. But . . . there on the dressing table a hinged jewelry box stood open, and beside it lay a brass candle lamp, on its side. Heart pounding, she walked forward and felt the wick. Still warm.
Trembling, Abigail padded down the back stairs. She could have pulled her cord, but the bells rang in the servants’ hall, and she preferred not to wake Mrs. Walsh. Nor was she eager to wait in the dark alone.
Reaching the former butler’s room belowstairs, which Duncan had claimed for himself, Abigail knocked.
She heard a groan from within, followed by the creak of bed ropes, and then the door opened a few inches. There stood Duncan, hair tousled and chest bare. She hoped he wore something below but did not dare look down.
“What is it?” he grumbled.
“Sorry to disturb you. But I’d like you to check the house and make sure all the doors are locked.”
“Already did. As I do every night.”
“It’s just . . . Mac warned me about intruders, and I thought I heard someone. Saw someone actually, and—”
“Saw what?”
“I . . . am not sure. But please check.”
He smirked. “Had a nightmare, did ya? Shall I bring you some hot milk?”
Irritation flashed. “Will you check the doors or must I wake someone else to do your job for you?”
He frowned. “No need to wake the whole house. Not when you’ve already woken me.”
She became aware then of the defensive way he held his door, only slightly ajar. She had at first thought he did so to shield his nakedness, but the longer he stood there without shirt or apparent modesty the more she doubted that was the real reason.
Good heavens! Had he brought some light-skirt into the house?
She narrowed her eyes. “Do you have someone in there with you?”
His head reared back in surprise. He looked over his shoulder into the room as if to
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