Page 6 of A Strange Christmas Game

Chapter Four

Abath hadseemed like a good idea at the time.

Now, covered in Ullinn House’s dust with nothing to show for it but aching muscles and a tub of frigid water, Florence regretted it. Drawing a bath seemed so simple. It was early in the morning. She had determined from the state of the overgrowth that no one would see her pumping water should anyone be out before dawn.

Plagued by nightmares, she found she could not sleep anyway. Hands in the dark snatched at her and flames engulfed her makeshift bed on the drawing room chaise.

It was better to be awake and haunted by her own thoughts.

More than once as she’d tried to sleep, she’d thought she heard voices—the flutter of shuffling cards, an argument, two men bickering back and forth. Because she was a sensible woman who’d never been raised to entertain the thought of spirits lingering where they shouldn’t, she’d dismissed them as the result of lack of sleep.

Her encounter with Mr. Danvers had rattled her more than she thought.

Then, she should have known that. People who were all right did not run away from their places of work, where they lived, and those they knew.

It had been such a usual day, and Mr. Danvers had never given her a reason to be on her guard that afternoon or on any other. When he’d cornered her in the nursery, it had been an utter surprise. Somehow, she’d managed to flee. He had not compromised her, but he did manage to lay hands upon her while exposing himself. She knew that he’dwantedto take her: it was in his eyes and his insistent, invasive touch.

Florence shuddered and stared at the water in the old tub.

It was in the kitchen, a place that, more than the rest of the house, seemed stuck in time. There was no reason why it should not have been—there was nothing that anyone needed to do in a dead man’s kitchen after he’d passed. Everything was left as it was the day Mr. Mason died, or so she imagined.

She let her hand dip into the water.

It was not as cold outside as she remembered some Christmases. A few in her childhood had been harsh. But it was still frigid enough now to make bathing without warm water or a fire daunting.

The daughter of a fisherman and a mother who taught local children their letters, Florence was not accustomed to having every luxury under the sun. She was usually resilient enough to stomach discomfort.

Yet when she looked at the water in the pale candlelight and saw her breath coming in puffs, she could not help but cry. The tears came and were relentless.

How she wanted things to be all right. She wanted her father, her mother, and people she could not even name. The ones that might be in her future—a husband, children. A family.

This was not how Christmas should be.

It is not fair,she thought.

After all, her affinity for the very idea of family was what prompted her to seek work as a governess. But when she realized that even families of the middling classes wished for their governesses to be educated and from a similar background as them, she’d settled for being a nursemaid. There was also the matter of governesses having to leave their positions if they wished to marry.

A nursemaid was lower in the household hierarchy, so the position was more attainable.

In fact, the older two girls’ governess, a woman called Miss Philips, looked down her nose at Florence. She believed Florence had the wrong accent, vocabulary, and looks to be allowed into the Danvers’ home. Much less to help raise the children.

How long was she supposed to wait, she wondered. She did not know how long she could withstand loneliness, hunger, and uncertainty. She wiped her hand on her soiled dress and found that once her tears began, they would not stop.

Perhaps in a few minutes or an hour, she would be better, but she could not escape the feeling of being lost.

Nigel rose earlyand shook him awake with a gentle but insistent hand. “Charles.”

“What do you want?”

“I could not sleep. I wondered whether you might want to return to Ullinn House.”

“You want to gonow?”

It was, thought Charles, an enormous feat for Nigel to be coherent. He’d never been prone to morning alertness. Charles, conversely, could rise whenever anyone needed him to. It turned out to be a handy trait when he was hired as a valet. The secret was that he did not sleep deeply. He never had. It was not the lamentable lack of sleep that some men complained of—it was more a natural state. He seemed to be ever on the alert. And here in Mr. Lester’s inn, that feeling had not abated.

It was not exactly worse, but he had much to think about.

After his assertion that Mr. Mason the elder had killed his own brother in a duel, the innkeeper grew ominously silent. Neither Charles nor Nigel could coax more information from him.

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