“I see.” The slight difference in architecture as they moved into the older part of the house became readily apparent. The wood-paneled walls gave way to stone. The ceilings were lower, the space of the hall tighter. Mildly claustrophobic. Edwina had the strange sensation Rose Abbey was trying to swallow her.
Mrs. Page stopped, swinging open two large double doors at the end of the hall. “I expected His Lordship might have you begin your work today and lit the fire in anticipation. The stone walls keep this part of the house chilly and damp. Your quarters will feel much the same way.” She looked up at the ceiling. “They are directly above this room. Closer to the library for your convenience.”
“Thank you.”
Edwina stepped into the library, taking in the room before her. The octagon shape of the library was unexpected, as were the high, arched windows at the back that gave a clear view of the abandoned church and the cliffs beyond. An enormous fireplace took up the entire right wall, the stone crumbling in places, and the flames licked and hissed, devouring a stack of logs. Probably original to this part of the house. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of a woman dressed in flowing dark robes. A white headdress completely covered her hair and part of her forehead.
“Lady Renalda,” Mrs. Page said in a solemn tone. “The final abbess. This was her office.”
Of course it was.
Edwina looked up at the stern, unsmiling woman. McDeaver and the residents of Portsmith reviled the abbess for sacrificing her flock for the sake of her own stubborn pride. The woman in the portrait was younger than Edwina had expected. And pretty. A small bouquet of roses lay in her lap, crimson like all the roses Edwina had seen thus far. Piercing blue eyes gazed back at Edwina, seeming to follow her progress toward the small desk beside the fireplace.
Lady Renalda certainly had the look of a vengeful spirit.
“I’ll have Meg bring you tea and something to eat, Miss Collins. I believe you’ll find ink and paper in the desk.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Page. Tea would be most welcome.”
Edwina waited until the housekeeper left before settling herself at the desk. Her head fell to the wooden surface as she tried to pull back the wave of trepidation filling her. If she were wise, Edwina would head back to Portsmith as soon as the rain stopped. Her cousin, Southwell, had offered Edwina a home at his country estate. She could stay as long as she liked. Organize all the artifacts he’d collected on his travels.
Looking around at the coldness surrounding her, Edwina thought maybe she should have taken South’s kind offer. But then, as now, Edwina couldn’t imagine living on her cousin’s charity for the remainder of her days. She had no desire to be the poor, forgotten spinster relation who was trotted out at family gatherings only to be viewed with pity. The very idea made Edwina feel small and insignificant.
Edwina lifted her head. She must brave this out. It was far too late for second thoughts. She was here. The correspondence before her was an excellent start to prove her worth to Bascomb before moving on to the ledgers. Not only was her penmanship splendid, but Edwina’s attention to detail, along with her love of numbers, was a singular skill. Her ability allowed her to spot errors others did not, particularly useful when keeping her father’s books.
A sudden wash of sadness pierced Edwina’s chest. Her father had tried desperately to hide the truth of their approaching poverty, but Edwina had seen how the ledgers had been padded just the same. She’d done what she could, stretching every shilling to ensure there would be coal and something to eat in the larder. Kept a roof over their heads for far longer than anyone thought possible. In the end, all her efforts hadn’t mattered. She’d still been forced to sell everything.
Edwina craned her neck to the side and caught Lady Renalda glaring at her with those judgmental eyes. Why did Bascomb keep the portrait of the abbess? Seemed odd given Lady Renalda’s reputation for haunting.
Lightning streaked across the windows at the back of the library, followed by another roar of thunder.
Two very distinct thuds came from the bookcase nearest the windows, along with the sound of something moving along the floor.
Edwina leaned back in the chair, peering into the gloom. The library could benefit from better lighting. The back of her neck prickled, and she had the sense she was not alone in the room. Her pulse fluttered unsteadily, fear clogging her throat.
She cursed McDeaver again for filling her head with nonsense.
Pushing back from the desk, Edwina stood, clutching the pen before her like a weapon.
“Hello?”
Moving silently toward the other side of the library, Edwina made her way to the row of bookcases and peeked around the corner. Two books lay sprawled, spines up, on the floor. Lowering the pen and feeling like an idiot, she marched over and picked up both tomes. Sliding both books back into the empty spot on the bookshelf, she took a deep breath, willing her pulse to slow.
“Nothing but thunder,” she said out loud. “The vibrations from the storm shook the house, which in turn rattled the bookshelves, causing the books to fall to the floor.” A laugh came from her. “Nothing ghostly about it. When next I see Mr. McDeaver, I shall have a word with him about filling me with tales of a crazed abbess haunting Rose Abbey. If I—”
The words stalled in her mouth as another thump sounded from the other side of the library. The bookcases there nearly reached the ceiling, sitting flush against the wall. She pushed her hands into her skirts to stop the slight tremble of her fingers, nearly dropping the pen. There was nothing amiss. No books on the floor. Nothing out of place.
Feeling foolish and instructing her imagination to rein itself in, she marched back to the center of the room, stopping before the portrait of the abbess.
“I don’t believe in you,” Edwina whispered.
“Miss?”
Edwina gasped, her hand coming to her throat before she turned and saw Meg in the doorway.
Good Lord.She’d not even been here an entire day and already she was imagining things. She was not a woman who was easily startled. Or even fanciful. The house was old. The bookcases looked quite ancient. She’d be lucky if they didn’t suddenly burst apart and all come tumbling down upon her while she worked.
A large tray was held aloft in Meg’s quivering hands. “I’ve brought your tea, Miss Collins.” Her eyes darted to the portrait of the abbess before fixing back on Edwina, features stamped with fear. The tea tray trembled, the cup clattering against the saucer.
