Page 13 of House of Furies
“Tea, of course,” he said. His voice was deeper now that I heard it without the barrier of the door. There was already a lovely pot and set of cups prepared on his desk. As I approached, I saw the fine painting work on the porcelain was scenery of birds in flight.
He certainly has a theme.
He moved nimbly, smoothly, pouring out the fragrant tea with balletic grace. His coat was one of the most expensive I had ever seen, the lapels decorated with tiny vines and leaves. Hair as black as mine had been brushed back from his forehead, the ends curling under his ears. He wore it longer than was strictly in fashion, but the style suited him. His face was long, lean, with a prominent chin and equally prominent nose. Small golden eyes flashed up from the teacups, and I marveled at the thickness of his lashes, as lustrous as little raven feathers.
The silence felt suddenly heavy and awkward. I cast about for something to say, but it didn’t seem appropriate to bombard him with questions, despite my desire to do so.
“I trust you’ve eaten,” he said again with that low, calm voice. He was not at all in a hurry, though he moved efficiently enough, sliding the saucer across the desk toward me and indicating that I should drink. Unlike Chijioke’s, I could not at all place his accent. It sounded neither low class nor high, but bang in the middle.
“Yes, sir, Mrs. Haylam saw to that.” This tea was better than the stuff upstairs, richer, with a luxurious hint of bergamot. “I would like to thank you for offering me a place here.”
“Yes, yes.” He waved away my thanks impatiently. Then, placing his palms flat on the desk, he fixed me with a direct stare. “Do you fancy birds, Louisa Ditton?”
I sputtered a little over my tea. “Birds, sir?”
“It might be abitof a fixation,” he said with a wry grin. “Youhavenoticed the birds?”
“There’s no need to insult me,” I replied. God, impertinent already. I needed to learn when to clamp down on that. “Rather... I’ve seen the birds, sir. Gra—Mrs. Haylam and I delivered some just yesterday. Did they arrive safely?”
He nodded, ignoring his own cup of fresh tea. A single black curl fell over his forehead, swaying roguishly as he continued. “The green-breasted pitta from Africa survived, which was my only real concern. Golden feathers, a black mask like a highwayman. Magnificent creature. Much like you, I imagine.”
Me?
“You must be mistaken,” I said. No, my only ambition here was to work and go unnoticed. I simply needed to toil and save up some pay, then leave when I knew where it was I wanted to go. Ireland. America. Anywhere.Disappear. “I swear I’ve never been a highwayman.”
His smile deepened. “No? I seem to collect criminals and strays. Which you should know is not an insult.”
I flinched. “I was at Pitney School outside of Leeds before this, and I left because of how cruelly we were treated. Forgive me, I don’t mean to be so petulant, but I’m not accustomed to kindness.”
“A rare glimpse of honesty.” He nodded, and his eyes flashed with interest. “However you managed to keep yourself alive before you landed here is of no concern to me.”
“Even if I were hunted? What if the authorities wanted me?”
“Dothey?” Greater interest. He leaned his weight onto his palms, easing toward me.
“No,” I said simply. “I’m no one.”
“Now, there you are wrong. Mrs. Haylam has long filled these halls with...personalities. She knows how to see through to what people truly are, and so she must have seen something intriguing in you, Louisa. When I took ownership of Coldthistle House, I gave her but one directive: ‘Hire and fire at your will, Mrs. Haylam, but never for a single instant bore me.’”
He had a way of starting a phrase sternly and ending it in amusement. And where that Rawleigh Brimble boy showed himself to be an open book, I could sense Mr. Morningside holding something close to the vest. He might have been smiling in my direction, but his gaze remained veiled.
“Howdidyou come to be master of this place?”
One severely arched eyebrow lifted in surprise. Already I was doing a poor job of being forgettable and invisible.
“That was the wrong thing to ask,” I said. “Only, you seem quite young.”
“And thus unequal to the task?” Mr. Morningside watched me intently, and I knew then that he was attempting to read me as surely as I was trying to do the same to him. It made me curl inward, afraid; it was never comfortable to meet someone of similar or greater intellect. He made some kind of internal calculation, biting down slightly on his lower lip, and then cut meoff before I could sputter out an apology. “Before you ask, and I know you will: I am not offended. Suffice it to say, the family that once owned this great house died quite suddenly and tragically. The place lay empty, and I had the means to acquire it. Mrs. Haylam does the real work, and she leaves me be with my books and my birds.”
I cast an eye around the office again, noticing now the recessed bookshelves overflowing with leather-bound manuscripts. The stack of papers on his desk was impressively tall.
“You’re a writer.”
This amused or pleased him, and he gave a shrug, tucking his hand back into the flap of his coat. When he leaned away from me, the air in the room felt less close. “I dabble. Not a writer, really, more of a hobbyist. A naturalist. A historian. The little domestic details of running a boardinghouse never interested me. And perhaps that’s a shame. As the saying goes, idle hands are the devil’s playthings.”
“They are indeed. I believe they are also the privilege and provenance of the rich,” I said.
Disappear, Louisa. Stop speaking and making a nuisance of yourself.
