Page 10 of One Last Whisper

There are times when I truly wish I was wrong.

I understand how arrogant that sounds, but I am very rarely wrong when I suspect foul play or malice. Growing up with an abusive mother has given me a very strong intuition when it comes to other people’s intentions. I must always be on guard around my mother to prepare for those times when her verbal and emotional abuse turns into violent physical abuse. When I’m in school, I hone that ability, studying psychology for my first four years of college before changing my focus to education after Annie’s disappearance. Twenty-five years as a teacher and two years as a governess working with several troubled families has sharpened that intuition further.

Maybe it is only arrogance. I’m not always right about people. But it’s rare.

In any case, I wish that I was wrong more often. I wish I was wrong about what I heard last night. I wish it wasn’t actually a woman screaming that I heard. I wish my nightmare wasn’t prophetic. I wish that Oliver and I had only been frightened by the wind and needn’t have worried about the howls that ruined both of our sleep.

But when I arrive downstairs to see Theresa wringing her hands and pleading with a very frustrated Lord Edmund, I know immediately that I’m not wrong. Something terrible has happened here.

Lord Edmund finally brushes past Theresa and leaves the house. The door slams behind him, and Theresa hangs her head in defeat.

I rush to her side and ask, “Theresa! What’s wrong? What happened?”

She lifts her eyes to mine. Hers are red and puffy, as though she's been crying. She sighs and says, "Sarah hasn't returned to work yet. I've called her mobile and asked the other two if they've seen her, but they haven't."

My brow furrows. “Sarah? Is she not in her room?”

Theresa shakes her head. “She went out last night. She had a date with a young man in town, and I gave her the night so long as she returned in the morning. She hasn’t returned, and she hasn’t called.”

My fear dissolves. I think I know what happened here. I smile at Theresa. “Surely that’s nothing to be frightened about,” I tell her. “Sarah is a young woman, and… well, we know what young people do when they date.”

Theresa shakes her head again and says firmly. “She wouldn’t be late. She’s never late. She’s a good girl. A bit daft, but a good girl, anyway. She’d call me, at least, or she’d answer her phone when I called.”

My heart goes out to her. She really does care for her staff. I lay a hand on the poor woman’s shoulder and say, “Even good young people can get caught up in the heat of the moment. I guarantee you she’s still with that young man and not thinking at all about work or her responsibilities. It’s only six-thirty. She’ll wake up, realize she’s late, and rush over here red-faced and embarrassed, apologizing profusely and bracing herself for a scolding.”

“She’ll get one,” Theresa promises. “Havin’ me worried sick like this.” She looks beseechingly at me. “Do you really think she’s all right?”

Help me! Please!

But that can’t be. I can’t have heard that. It was only the wind. Wasn’t it?

I’ll take my own advice and wait before I panic. It’s still early. In a few hours, Sarah will no doubt rush into the house,flushed with embarrassment and grinning like a fool. Theresa will give her a good tongue-lashing full of motherly scolding and motherly love, and Sarah will endure her punishment of hard work, no doubt dreamily remembering the reason for it the entire time.

I stifle a shiver and reply, “I really do.”

She gives me a grateful smile and sighs. “Well, I hope he was worth it, then, because I’m going to work her so hard when she gets here she won’t have energy to run off and dally with some young fool.” She sniffs. “Well, I’ll go get the others started on breakfast. Heaven knows if I’m letting my fancy take flight, Franny and Matilda have written a novel in their heads.”

She heads for the kitchen. I remain in the foyer, and when the door closes behind her, I gasp and lean against the occasional table. A jade statue of a dragon snarls up at me, it’s polished eyes gleaming under the light of the morning.

Sarah must be safe. It can't be that every single job I take exposes me to murder. The logical reason for Sarah's absence is that her date went well, and she's still in bed with her beau. She's young, after all. When you're that age, sex is the most important thing in the world. It doesn't matter how responsible you are, you'll forget to tie your own shoelaces when you have a chance for lovemaking.

When my heart rate calms, and I’m in charge of my own emotions, I head to the dining room for breakfast. Lady Cordelia is there. Her own eyes are red and puffy, and I suffer another bout of disquiet. I heard someone scream last night, and it seems that each time I try to convince myself it was nothing, some other reason reveals itself. I don’t like to think about the reason that reveals itself here, but I still wonder if a breathtaking young woman like Lady Cordelia can be happy with a much older man like Lord Edmund.

I can’t very well ask her if Lord Edmund hurt her, though. If I’m wrong, then such a question could spell the end of my employment, and it’s clear that Oliver needs my help. Still, I want to be available for her if she needs it, so after we exchange good mornings, I say, “How are you feeling this morning?”

She gives me a tired smile. “Between you and me, Miss Mary, being married to a lord is far more tiring than I expected it to be.”

“I imagine so.” How can I approach this subject delicately? “Is his Lordship a light sleeper?”

She laughs. The reaction is unexpected and a little disturbing. She brings a hand to her mouth, but continues to shake with mirth. I shift in my seat and say, “I apologize if I’ve offended you, my Lady. It’s really none of my—”

“No, no,” she says, getting herself under control. “I’m sorry. No, you haven’t offended me. It’s just… the way you said that.” She clears her throat. “No, his Lordship could sleep through the Second Battle of Britain and not so much as stir on his bed. And as far as…” she reddens slightly. “Well, my sleep is rarely interrupted. No, it’s not sharing his bed that’s tiring. It’s...”

She seems to remember who she’s speaking to. She reddens further and says, “Well, it’s nothing important. His Lordship is simply stressed about his tax bill. I am very grateful to you for the way you spoke to him last night. It really does mean a lot to him when a… um…”

“A commoner?” I suggest.

She flushes again. “Yes. God, that’s a horrible word, isn’t it?”

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