Page 55 of This Haunted Heart

“It means she’s no one you need to concern yourself with. She is here because there is history between us that needsresolving. She’s no business of yours because we have nothing but reasons to loathe one another.”

“Loathe? My, that’s a strong word.” Jo didn’t sound as if she believed me at all. “Goodness, she’s extremely lovely, though. Have you seen her properly? If I loathed a woman who looked like her . . . well, I probably don’t need to tell you what I’d do with all that.”

“Of course I’ve seen her. And no. Please, baby sister, do not tell me what you would do. I would have to set my ears on fire.”

“So lovely,” she purred.

“You found ‘the one,’” I reminded her sharply. “You’re supposed to be smitten with Margaret.”

Jo fanned herself playfully. “I’m suddenly feeling a little less smitten.”

“Stop staring at her like that, will you?” I grumped. I knew she was having me on, but it bothered me anyway. “She’s going to notice.”

Her face split in a mocking grin. “I’m only teasing you. I just wanted to see what you’d do. Test a theory, if you will, since I knew you’d avoid answering my questions. Must you be so secretiveallthe time?”

“What theory?” I muttered.

“I won’t trespass upon you further. I’ll leave you alone to figure out this history business,” she said, shuffling back toward her carriage, “but word to the wise, brother: stop telling yourself you loathe her. Clearly you don’t. And—”

“I didn’t ask for your advice. I’m the older sibling. I give the unwanted guidance, not you.”

“—start acting like youloveher. Because clearly you do,” she said, continuing as though I’d never spoken at all. “You’llget much further with her behaving that way—like a fool in love. And write me back, you rude man! Or I’ll drop in unannounced again soon, and you won’t be able to usher me out quickly next time. I’ll stay a whole week just to spite you!”

Her unwelcome advice was simple, and yet it hit me harder than it should have. I saw the carriage off with promises that I would write soon, then I returned to Rynn and our walk. I tried to shake Josephine’s guidance out of my mind, but it hung there stubbornly. A tiny voice of reason amongst the dark, dank parts of me. The sweeter bits of my person, which I thought had been burned out long ago, rejoiced.

* * *

Three days later, Rynn cleared the table after breakfast, carting the dishes into the kitchen. More penance, she said. It was taking her an inordinately long time to return to me, so I went looking for her.

I found her standing near the cabinetry in the kitchen, staring at the cookstove.

“Rynn?”

She blinked at the handle on the cast iron door, where a floral kitchen towel was tied.

I tried again to get her attention, placing a hand on her shoulder. Rynn turned to me then with a faraway look in her eyes like she’d only just realized I was there.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her.

She pointed to the towel. “Do you remember the old cook, Martha? I served under her.”

I nodded. “I remember her.”

She squinted at the offending towel. “Martha was gettingon in years and she was always forgetting where she set her towel down. When the cookstove had cooled, she’d tie it to the handle in a loose knot just like that to keep herself from walking off with it again and losing another one before she needed it next.”

“All right,” I said, letting her work through her own thoughts.

“Just now, I carried the plates out to scrape them clean, but by the time I was half done and returned for the rest, the others were . . . well, they were already spotless and put away. The sink by the back door is wet. It’s muggy in there like the water heater has been working hard—but I hadn’t turned the taps on yet, Loch! Then I found the towel tied there, even though I’m sure it was folded up on the table before I went out the back.”

She stared at me imploringly, but I offered nothing in response.

“And there’s no onehere,” she stressed. “I checked. And this is not the first time something like this has happened. How do I keep missing your staff? Constantly, it’s like they just left a room I was in, but I can’t find anyone. Unless they’re quiet as mice, impossibly quick, and hiding from me on purpose!”

“Hm,” I said noncommittally. I had an answer for her, but of course it wasn’t one she would like. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

Her throat bobbed. “And I just keep seeing traces of Martha all over this kitchen. That oyster stew, it was her recipe. The lamb, too. This cabinet is organized exactly the way she preferred . . . But she’s much too old now to be serving in a kitchen, surely. Did you hire a relative or someone who worked under her? Someone especially gifted at hide-and-seek?”

“No. Martha died some time back. About eleven years ago now,” I explained.

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