Page 3 of One Last Whisper

I realize I’ve allowed Theresa to leave me behind, so I hurry to catch up. The kitchen is a refreshing change, modern and furnished with marble tiles and stainless-steel countertops. Like the parlor, it is huge, but unlike the parlor, the stainless-steel covers the stone, effectively muting the cold of the house’s ancient design.

There are two dining rooms, a grand one with sconces for torch lights and a great crystal chandelier over a table that could comfortably sit twenty, and a smaller one with seating for six. Both rooms are sparsely decorated but well lit, and the dark mahogany of the furniture does little to warm the coldness of the stone walls but at least doesn’t paint a false veneer over it.

The school room is a small study complete with a bookshelf, a globe and a charming little maple desk. “This is for the young master, I assume?” I ask Theresa.

She smiles sadly. "Ah, yes. Little Oliver. Poor lad."

I raise an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

She sighs. “He’s a sickly child, he is. Has a cough that just won’t go away. Doctors aren’t sure if it’s asthma or emphysema or if his poor lungs didn’t form right.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware. How awful.”

"Truly, it is. His mother was sweet as honey but as delicate as a flower. She did her best, the poor dear, but I don't think she carried him well. When a child comes out sickly like that, you can bet it starts in the womb. Not that I blame her. She did her best, the poor dear."

I am a little disquieted by this somewhat circular speech. I am aware that I am caring for Oliver Blackwood, Lord Edmund’s nephew. I am also aware that his sister, Oliver’s mother, disappeared years ago. Still, hearing this suspicious assertion that somehow Oliver’s condition is the fault of his mother sits ill with me.

I don’t think Theresa means ill by it, though. Gossip is, unfortunately the favorite pastime of the English servant. It’s something I’ve encountered before and something I am sure I’ll endure at every one of my posts.

Not that I can claim I’m immune to gossip. Sean often teases me by saying that my penchant for sleuthing is nothing more than an “unusually sizable example of the British woman’s gossip gland.”

Still, I do try not to speak ill of the dead. Heaven knows I’ve suffered enough from ghosts without provoking them.

Theresa leads me upstairs after that. “I’ll show you the garden tomorrow when the sun’s out and it’s not so bitterly cold. I tell you, Mary, I do love Northumberland, but there aredays I wouldn’t mind if that climate change everyone talks about wanted to warm us up a few notches.”

We reach the top of the stairs, and I am somewhat disheartened to see that the second floor carries even less to distract from the austerity of the castle. Suits of armor stand halfway in between six doors on the left side of the hallway and six on the right.

"These are the servants' quarters," Theresa informs me. "Mine is the last one on the right. Yours is directly across from me. Oliver is in the one next to yours so you can be close if he needs anything. The others are occupied by the other maids. You'll meet them soon enough. Lord Edmund's driver has a room in the garage, and he never hired a new gardener to replace Mr. Garland when he died. He hires a landscaping company now."

She says that last sentence with a peculiar streak of venom. So many household servants hold contractors in fierce contempt. Perhaps they feel their jobs are threatened, or perhaps it's the old English dislike of anything different.

“There’s lots more to see,” Theresa says, “but most of it isn’t business for us servants. Well, mine, I suppose, since I’m the housekeeper, but even I can only enter certain rooms if I’m instructed. Lord Edmund is very particular about his privacy. Come, let’s go fetch your luggage.”

As I follow her downstairs, I ask, “How long have you been working for Lord Edmund?”

“Oh, let’s see. It’s been… fifteen years now.”

My eyes widen in surprise. I don’t voice the thought, but I was expecting the number to be higher. I guessed Theresa’s age to be around forty-five. Most household servants enter service when they’re teenagers. Many are still born into it. In this modern age, some relics of our past still endure. I suppose, likethis castle, we simply paint over it and hope the darkness doesn’t bleed through.

Theresa grabs my bags with the same effortless strength she shows earlier andtsksaway my offer to help. “If I can’t lift a pair of suitcases up a flight of stairs, I’ve got no business being housekeeper to His Lordship.”

I’m not sure I follow the logic, but I’m quite sure I’d like to remain on Theresa’s good side. My first impression of her is that of a very strong-willed woman who takes great pride in her household and in herself. If she likes you, she will be a stalwart friend. If she doesn’t, she will be a lifelong enemy. I am finished making enemies.

With the luggage placed in my room, Theresa smiles in satisfaction and says, “There you are. You’ll be wanting to rest after your journey. Breakfast is at seven in the morning, and His Lordship has instructed you to me to invite you so you can meet him, the Lady Cordelia and Master Oliver. Will you need a wake-up call?”

“No, thank you. I am up by six-thirty every morning, and I don’t need long to shower and dress.”

“Very good then.” She sticks out her hand. “Miss Mary, it was a pleasure to meet you. I think you and I will get on famously.”

I smile and take her hand, once more marveling at its strength. “I feel that way too, Theresa.”

She leaves, and I take a moment to look around my room. It is small, but not cramped. The bed is a full-size bed, smaller than I’m used to but plush and made with a soft down comforter and memory foam pillows. The pillows and the flatscreen TV on the dresser are the odd touches of modernity in a room that is otherwise as austere and ancient as the rest of the castle.

I do not consider myself a superstitious woman, but I have been plagued with nightmares in the past, and I don’t wish to beplagued tonight. So I leave the desk lamp that sits on the room’s small table on as a nightlight and change for bed.

I text Sean good night before I sleep. Though I suppose for him, it’s still rather early. He replies with an image of my own bedroom at the house in Boston. He’s dusted it and cleaned the furniture. The bedding is gone, presumably to be washed or discarded and replaced. It looks empty and lifeless.

I thank him anyway and then set my alarm and close my eyes firmly. I have fought quite hard to move past my old fears, and I am determined that no castle, no matter how old or forbidding, shall overcome that determination.

---