Page 7 of The Haunting of Rose Abbey
“Oh, it is.” Bascomb grabbed another sandwich and strolled to the doors. “Have a good evening, Collins.”
Chapter Three
Edwina finished braidingthe length of her hair, stretching out her neck and shoulders. She’d worked through the remainder of the afternoon and into the early evening, starting with the largest pile of Bascomb’s papers. The receipts and correspondence pertaining to the restoration of the estate seemed the most urgent. Opening a ledger, she’d thought to start matching receipts with entries but stopped after seeing the mistakes sprinkled throughout the rows of numbers. Edwina was far too exhausted to begin what she could see at first glance would be quite a project.
The intensity of the storm outside hadn’t abated a bit. Rain still lashed the windows with fury. She thought of Lady Renalda and the horrible events that had taken place at Rose Abbey so long ago. Bascomb’s version of what had transpired here was likely closer to the truth than the tale spun by McDeaver. It pained Edwina to know that Lady Renalda, in addition to what she’d suffered in life, must also have the indignity of her good name besmirched in death.
Edwina sighed and looked out over the darkness cloaking the estate. She supposed it didn’t matter what the truth was any longer. Everyone who had been involved was long dead. Despite Bascomb’s parting words that Rose Abbey was haunted, Edwina didn’t believe in ghosts.
The wind continued to howl and snake around the house, trying to find a space between the stones. Thankfully, Edwina’s room seemed well insulated against the storm. The stone walls had to be a foot thick. The quarters Mrs. Page had directed her to were comfortable, if not large. The bed had a thick mattress, as fine as anything that had once graced her parents’ home, complete with a canopy and bed-curtains. Fine fabrics, even if the style was out of date. A fire roared away in the hearth, spreading a comfortable glow across the room. Soap, towels, and a pitcher of warm water awaited her. She hadn’t been hungry after the enormous tray of food served her earlier and had instead opted for a pot of chamomile tea when Meg had knocked softly at the door.
Lying back in the bed, Edwina left the curtains open a fraction to allow in the heat from the fire. Her fingers curled around the edges of the coverlet as she stared at the canopy above her head. Exhaustion settled in her bones, yet she was unable to fall asleep. Again, she considered the consequences of her somewhat rash decision to accept the position with Bascomb, though at the time, Edwina had thought it the best choice.
Since her father’s death, Edwina had been stuck in a continuous cycle of survival. Her family’s descent into poverty had been slow. Excruciating. Painful. Brought on by a combination of poor investments made by her father—which he’d tried to hide from her—and constant overspending by Edwina’s frivolous mother. Father had refused to beg for charity from his relation, the Earl of Southwell, instead insisting that things would “turn around.”
They never had.
Edwina had spent her days negotiating with the butcher. The dressmaker. The farmer from whom they’d purchased their eggs. She’d chopped wood for their fire. Decided the price of sugar was so dear that they would drink their tea without. Let go of their maid. Cook. The embarrassment of her family’s decline was such that Edwina kept the worst of the situation from her cousin, the Earl of Southwell, as well as other members of their far-flung family. Edwina was mortified. Especially after her broken betrothal. When she’d finally been forced to sell the family home, Edwina had taken what coins she’d had left and arrived at Southwell’s estate, the advertisement from Bascomb clutched in one hand. Edwina had begged Southwell to write her a recommendation, explaining she wanted to make her own way in the world. She was too ashamed to confess the true state of her affairs.
Southwell, she’d pleaded, need only help her with this small thing.
Southwell had written the recommendation, against his better judgment. He’d told Edwina she could work for him, if she were so determined to be a secretary, but Edwina had refused.
Now, listening to the wind howl outside, Edwina thought perhaps she would have been better off cataloging Southwell’s collection of stone tablets, pottery, and terrifying masks.
He had quite a lot of those.
But Edwina hadn’t wanted charity. Marriage certainly was no longer an option. Suitors did not bang on the door of Miss Edwina Collins, poor spinster. She wasn’t even a maid anymore thanks to her mildly satisfying affair with the barrister whose offer of marriage she’d accepted. Of course, that was before the Honorable Jacob Duster had realized he would be getting nothing but Edwina and had withdrawn his offer.
Hands clenched, she thumped the mattress.
His abandonment still smarted. She’d been wildly attracted to Duster. Experienced a decent amount of pleasure in his arms, which had boded well for their marriage. Edwina thought Duster cared for her. That there was true affection between them. Yet when he’d realized the circumstances of the Collins family, Duster had broken off their relationship by sending a note to Edwina’s father.
Hadn’t even had the decency to inform Edwina himself.
“So now I’m here. Trapped at Rose Abbey with a—man I shouldn’t find the least attractive. And one with whom I should retain a professional relationship and nothing more.” Bascomb made every nerve in Edwina’s body stand at attention with those unusual eyes and striking looks. The attraction between them had crackled in the air when Bascomb had visited her earlier in the library. Her pulse skipped at the thought of him touching her.
Damn it.
Frowning, she plumped her pillow, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and firmly shut her eyes. She was here to be Bascomb’s secretary. Nothing more.
Chapter Four
Edwina woke slowly,keeping her eyes closed. Wind still threw rain against the windows. The sound of waves crashing against the cliffs was a distant roar. The fire, now little more than banked embers, popped and hissed.
Something was dragging along the floor of her room. Like a wet mop just out of the bucket. Or thick, soaked skirts slapping against flesh.
She was not alone.
The air in Edwina’s chest froze. Her lungs refused to work properly. Blind terror, the sort made of nightmares and darkness, shot through her body. Edwina couldn’t move even if she wanted to. It was all she could do to resist the scream clawing up her throat.
Keep breathing, Edwina. Pretend to be asleep.
The bed-curtains fluttered, the sound reaching her terrified ears. Ice-cold air brushed over the curve of her shoulder and teased at her hair. She struggled to keep her breathing even as the sensation of someone leaning over her pressed against her skin.
I am going to scream my bloody head off.
Just as quickly, the heaviness eased, followed by the sensation of fingers stroking the back of her head, as Edwina’s mother used to do. The choking fear abated, supplanted by a sense of peace and comfort. She drew in a soft breath and opened her eyes, unsurprised to find herself completely alone, the bed-curtains undisturbed.
