Page 6 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Maribeth drew in a controlled breath, her nostrils flaring a bit. Her sculpted features took on more definition as she crossed the room and engaged the gaslights. The chandelier above the round table burst into light, transforming the room from a spiritualist’s cave where departed spirits converged with the living to a simple study, where bookshelves along the far wall became clear enough for titles to be read.
“I am afraid that we are finished for the evening.” Maribeth’s announcement was met with a mixed reaction.
Perliett managed through the sting of guilt as Mr. and Mrs. Hoyt stood. Mrs. Hoyt adjusted her skirts and tugged gloves onto her hands, and Mr. Hoyt puffed out his chest.
“We’ve already paid you for an evening of—”
“Yes.” Maribeth dipped her head in a gracious nod. “And you shall have one. However, once the spirits have been disturbed, summoning them back is quite difficult. I’m afraidifyour niece were to have made an appearance, her spirit has already taken respite for the night.”
Mrs. Hoyt whimpered.
Mr. Hoyt grumbled under his breath.
“Thursday evening perhaps? At nine? I shall extend our gathering for an additional fifteen minutes.” Maribeth did not offer other promises. One couldn’t promise much onbehalf of the dearly departed. They did in death whatever they wished, the same as they had in life.
Mr. and Mrs. Hoyt pushed by Perliett, who moved to the side to allow them space to exit.
Mr. Hoyt gave her a dark glare. “We’ll show ourselves out.” And they continued down the corridor, where it opened into the front entrance. Mr. Hoyt snatched his hat from the hall tree, his umbrella from the stand, and then draped a cloak over Mrs. Hoyt’s shoulders. Front door opened, they departed, not unlike a spirit. Blustering, incomplete, and wholeheartedly unsatisfied.
“Mr. Bridgers.” Maribeth addressed the stranger who had yet to rise. Perliett noticed, as she turned back to the room, that he was watching her. Assessing her if she wasn’t mistaken. His dark eyes drilled into hers with the ferocity of someone who was certain she was hiding something. Perliett furrowed her brow in a questioning scowl, and Mr. Bridgers broke their contact by addressing her mother.
“Mrs. Van Hilton.” He stood. His large hands matched his torso, which was broad. Muscle encased in a tailored suit. Once he finished rising to his feet, he towered over Maribeth’s petite form by a good twelve inches, and over Perliett by eight. “Thank you for your time tonight.”
“I assure you”—Maribeth cast Perliett a quick look to communicate her need to remain silent—“this is a rare occurrence. My daughter is very sensitive to these gatherings, and she simply wasn’t aware tonight.”
Perliett met Mr. Bridgers’s brooding heavy-lidded eyes again. He spoke to Maribeth but refused to look away from Perliett. “I’m certain you are correct.” His voice was a low rumble and sent rivers of intrigue mixed with nervous energy through her bloodstream. “I truly did not expect any grandiose visitations.”
“But your aunt—” Maribeth began.
Mr. Bridgers interrupted. “My aunt has been dead goingon four years now. Another evening of silence will not make our separation any less unusual.” At that, he tipped his head in dismissal at Maribeth and strode toward the door as if this study were his own, he was master of the house, and Perliett and her mother merely his house servants.
Pausing, he looked down his nose at her. “Please see me to the door.” It was a command, not a request.
At Maribeth’s quick nod, Perliett obeyed and despised herself for her quiet obedience. She could sense his presence looming behind her as she steered him down the hall. The front door ahead was a beacon of escape. Send the man on his way. If he were cloaked in black and hiding in a dark alleyway—if their farmland communityhadalleyways—Perliett determined he would feel far more at home.
“Where do you hail from?” she ventured. It struck her as oddly coincidental a stranger would appear in her home the same day she’d ministered to her first murdered corpse. Perliett was thankful for her long sleeves, which hid the nervous bumps that dotted her skin.
“The windy city” was all he offered in response.
Chicago.
“And you’ve been in Kilbourn since...?” She let her question hang, daring a quick look over her shoulder. My, he was towering over her and very close.
“Since this past weekend.” He reminded her of barely constrained thunder. The kind of thunder that both exhilarated you and terrified you simultaneously.
“Did you bring a hat?” Perliett noticed the hall tree was empty now that the Hoyts had departed. “Sir.” She added the word because his mere presence seemed to demand it.
“I did not.”
“Very well then.” Perliett twisted the doorknob, opening the way to her beloved porch overlooking the yard. Moonlight made it all appear various shades of blue. Eunice Withers’s image flashed across her mind again. Had she runthrough the dark? Illuminated by moonlight, shooting panicked glances over her shoulder before she was—
“Jasper.”
“Excuse me?” Her voice squeaked.
“You may call me Jasper,” Mr. Bridgers said.
“I’d not inquired, nor had I intimated that I was concerned with your name.” The words escaped her as easily as if she were goading George. But Mr. Bridgers wasn’t George. Not in the slightest. He wasn’t irksome or even arrogant. He was ... superior. Even she knew it, though she had no idea why.
