Eve Silver (4 page)

Her hand dropping from his, Darcie paused to look up at the white facade of the house before her. Large sash windows trimmed with black iron railings overlooked the street. There was a tall fence surrounding the property, the pointed tops of the iron rails standing sentinel against any who might dare to trespass. Two gates interrupted the continuity, one leading to a servants’ entrance that was at the bottom of a narrow stone stairwell, and the other opening to a short walkway leading to five stone steps that ascended to the wide-paneled front door. Darcie began to move forward, then stopped abruptly. That door was off limits to her. She ought to go down to the servants’ entrance.

As if reading her thoughts, Dr. Cole shook his head. “Time enough to stand on circumstance tomorrow,” he said. “For today, you may as well come in this way with me.”

He moved his hand in a smooth, beckoning motion, indicating that she should accompany him.

Darcie looked once more towards the house. This place would be her home, the only home she had known in a very long time. Her gaze shifted back to Dr. Cole. He was an enigma, this man who would be her employer. His treatment of her thus far had been exemplary. In fact, he had been more than kind. And she so desperately needed this post. Just standing here taxed her pathetic reserves of strength.

Turning back toward the carriage, she stared at the door, closed now against the macabre contents of the vehicle. Still, she knew he was there, the dead man who had shared their ride. Dr. Cole had not been forthcoming as to the reason that a fresh corpse sat in his carriage. He had offered neither explanation nor reassurance, and in truth, he owed her neither.

He was as beautiful as an angel, Dr. Damien Cole, but she knew that appearances were not to be trusted. Like the frozen surface of a river, a pretty, sparkly, outer face could hide a treacherous undercurrent. Moreover, her sister's warning tolled like a portent of doom in her thoughts. Mrs. Feather had called Dr. Cole a man to fear. At the very least he was a man to be wary of. After all, few people would travel through the city in the early morning hours with only a dead man for company.

But Darcie’s choices were few. Return to the street, return to Mrs. Feather's, or follow Dr. Cole into his home. She glanced at him once more. He waited patiently, seemingly unperturbed by her indecision.

Desperation and longing warred in her breast. She needed this position so badly. That her prospective employer was mysterious and somewhat peculiar was truly none of her affair, nor was the fact that he fraternized with a cadaver.

She thrust her wariness and doubt to the back of her mind, for if she was to work within this household, she could not let suspicion blossom and grow.

Her stomach rolled, twisting on its own empty core, and the world tilted eerily as a tide of weakness tugged at her. There really was no choice, she acknowledged. She must accept this position, for her other options were well and truly exhausted.

She glanced at Dr. Cole, who waited calmly by the gate, one foot resting negligently on the iron rail. He met her gaze, one brow uplifted. She met his unspoken question with a brief nod. He turned and strode through the gate. Placing her right foot before her left, Darcie began the brief journey up the path to the front door, the dark-paneled portal swinging open as they approached.

o0o

The following morning, Darcie rose before dawn. Well fed and well rested, she felt better than she had in months. Dressing swiftly, she then made her way down the back stairs from her attic chamber, past the upper floor of empty bedrooms and the next level that she had been told housed the doctor’s suite and study. She hurried to the scullery, shown to her the previous day. There she filled a bucket and collected the items she would need to scrub the front steps.

After lugging the heavy bucket of soapy water outside, she paused for a moment, wiping her hand across her brow, already feeling the strain of her exertions. She called upon all her reserves of strength, intent on completing her task as quickly as possible so she might move on to the next task and prove her worth. Kneeling on the top step, she began to scrub, her hand working in a circular pattern as she washed away the dirt and grime.

Poole, the butler, had been very clear as to his expectations. Darcie shivered as she pictured his glacial gaze fixed on her, a look of utter disdain puckering his features as he explained her duties. She had been left with few illusions as to the fact that Poole disliked her in the extreme, though she had no idea why this should be so.

She began to scrub faster, harder, intent on proving him wrong. This position as maid-of-all-work in Dr. Cole’s household was her one shining chance. She could ill afford to make any mistakes.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps rang along the deserted street. Darcie paused in her chore, turning to look up and down the cobbled road. Mist hugged the ground, wrapping it in cool gray silence. She could see nothing, no one. It was unnerving, being out here in the thin early morning light, the street barren and empty, with only her imagination and the ever present fear she had learned in Whitechapel for company. Seeing no cause for alarm, she turned to her task once more and began to scrub with renewed vigor.

The top step was done, and she moved to the second, then the third, until she had worked her way to the bottom. She no longer felt chilly; her exertions had warmed her, and tendrils of hair clung to her damp brow. Wiggling backwards, she began to scrub the short walkway, shifting herself back a few inches every few moments.

Darcie rested one hand on the ground and lifted her knee to crawl back yet another foot. Her buttock came in contact with something hard. The gate, she thought, turning her head to look over her shoulder, wondering how she had moved all the way to the fence in so short a time.

Two booted feet stood directly at her back. She cried out. The boots were crusted with mud, as was the hem of the long black cloak that hovered and swayed just above the ground. Scrambling to her feet, she stood, chest heaving, gasping for breath.

Her gaze collided with that of Dr. Cole. He watched her through eyes the color of smooth stones at the bottom of a stream.

“I-I-I'm s-s-sorry,” she stammered, pressing the flat of her palm against her breastbone. “I didn't hear you approach. I thought I was alone.”

“I saw you from the house.”

Her gaze shifting to the front door. He couldn't have come out that way, she thought. She had been washing the steps. He could not have passed without her seeing. Nor could he have come through the gate, for he would have had to pass her that way as well. She would have heard his steps, the creak of the hinges. Bewildered, she returned her attention to his person. He was looking down at the cobbled walkway.

Following his gaze, she too stared at the dirty gray water swirling on the stones, puddling at his feet.

“Oh, dear. Your boots...” Her voice trailed off. His boots, speckled with mud from the street, reminded her of the night she had hidden in a shadowed doorway on Hanbury Street, looking at eerily similar boots and the hem of a fine cloak. She shivered.

“You are cold.” Dr. Cole reached out and closed his fingers over hers. His hand was warm, his grasp firm. “Your skin is like ice.”

Unsure how to respond to his observation, Darcie snatched her hand away, and dropped her gaze to the ground.

“Here,” he said, his voice gentle. “Take this.”

Glancing up, she saw that he held a blue shawl draped over one arm. Hesitantly, Darcie stretched out her hand and touched the fine wool. Soft.

“It won't bite,” Dr. Cole said, holding the garment out toward her.

“For me?” Darcie raised her eyes, unable to hide her confusion. Clearly the garment was not new. Still, it was fine, obviously expensive. She could not help but wonder what he was doing out here at this early hour, offering her a shawl. “You mean to give this fine shawl to me?”

“Precisely.” He inclined his head slightly, and she thought she saw a tiny glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“Why?” she asked, bewildered.

“Because you looked cold.” He spoke slowly and clearly, as though explaining something to a child.

Heat flooded her cheeks. Likely he thought she was dimwitted.

“Thank you,” she whispered at last, taking the shawl and spreading it over her shoulders. She noticed a small seam in one corner, a tear that had been repaired with precise, tiny stitches. “I shouldn't like to put anyone out. Won't the owner miss this shawl?”

She was startled at the change that her question wrought in Dr. Cole's expression. Gone was any hint of warmth, replaced by a chilly nothingness, a barren terrain of absent emotion. With lightning speed his mood had shifted. It was disconcerting.

“The owner has no further use for it,” he said woodenly, then turned and strode up the stairs and through the front door, leaving Darcie standing on the stoop wondering at the cause of his mercurial shift in mood.

She carefully folded the shawl and hung it over the iron fence. She had no wish to have it slip from her shoulders while she worked and fall into the filthy water that swirled across the walk. With one last curious glance at the garment, she bent to her task once more, thinking that she would be greatly appreciative of it on chilly mornings.

Pausing, she looked up at the silent house. What an enigmatic man, she thought. So kind that he brought a servant a shawl because he thought she might be cold. So erratic that his mood changed with the rapidity of a heartbeat.

As she continued to scrub the grime from the walkway, Darcie lost herself in thoughts of Dr. Cole, recalling the glint of amusement in his eyes. The image blurred and shifted as she visualized his abrupt change of countenance, and she was reminded of her earlier speculation that perhaps Dr. Damien Cole was just a bit mad.

o0o

In the days that followed, Darcie spent her time cleaning, tidying, helping the laundry maid or Cook, making herself generally useful and performing any chore that required her attention. Slowly, she hollowed a shallow niche for herself, but remained vigilant lest her fortunes change once more.

Dr. Cole kept very strange hours, which left the routine of the household staff subject to his whim. He worked all night, and then slept all day. Sometimes, he slept not at all. The cleaning of his chamber, his study, and others rooms of the house were fitted in at opportune times, so as not to disturb his work. Sometimes, Darcie went for days without seeing him, but when she did encounter him in a hallway, in the parlor, on the stairs, he invariably greeted her with quiet cordiality. She wondered that he noticed her at all, that he spoke to her as though she was a person rather than a fixture in his household.

The staff went about their business with unobtrusive efficiency, guided by the rigidly demanding Poole, but Darcie noticed that other than working around his unpredictable schedule, no one catered to the doctor in any special way. No trays were sent up when he missed a meal. No warm chocolate or coffee kept at the ready for his request.

Thinking back to smiling Mrs. Beales, the cook who had worked in the home of her childhood, Darcie remembered the tray of cold meat and cheese, the sweet tarts, the hot coffee, always at the ready should Steppy return from work late in the night. It seemed sad that Dr. Cole had no such consideration, no one at all to care about him.

One afternoon Darcie placed a freshly delivered fish in the wet larder and after working up her courage, she approached Cook with her thoughts.

“I noticed that Dr. Cole has eaten nothing today,” she began.

Cook's hand, which was wielding a knife in a rapid chopping motion expertly cutting vegetables, paused mid-air at Darcie's observation. The portly woman turned and looked at her with a questioning expression. “Nothing new there, dear.”

Darcie nodded. “Shall I take him a tray?”

Cook's brows shot upward in surprise. “Won't eat it,” she muttered and returned her attention to chopping the carrots in front of her.

“Perhaps I could just take it up to him?” Darcie surprised herself by persevering.

Shaking her head, Cook set aside the knife and turned to meet Darcie's gaze. “Don't think I haven't tried. But no one's allowed out to the carriage house, and if I leave it at the foot of the stairs, the food's still there hours later. He'll eat when he's ready.”

“He isn't in the carriage house,” Darcie said, her heart pounding as she forced herself to stand her ground. “He's in his study. I saw him go up an hour past.”

Setting her fists on her ample hips, Cook stared at Darcie for a long minute. Then she shrugged, and took down a plate, heaping it with cheese, bread and some fresh berries. “Go on and take it up, then. You'll see. He won't take a bite. Like as not, he's in the drink.”

Darcie had placed the plate on a tray, and turned to leave the kitchen, but Cook's words stopped her.

“In the drink?” she asked, looking at Cook over her shoulder.

The other woman nodded. “He'll go on for a good long while right as rain, then the melancholy'll come on him.” She shrugged, took up her knife, and resumed the chore of preparing supper.

Clearly Cook had no intention of saying more.

Darcie ascended to the doctor's study, tray in hand, her thoughts troubled by Cook's revelations. She rapped lightly on the door.

“Come in.”

Balancing the tray on one hip, she eased the door open and stepped into the room. The heavy drapery was closed against the afternoon sun, leaving the room in dim and shadowed.

Dr. Cole sat behind his desk, a book open before him. He blinked against the light that entered the room from the hallway.

“Why do you read in the dark?” Darcie asked, an echo of her own mother. She bit her lip as she wished she could call the words back. He was hardly a child, and she was in no position to be chastising him.

He ignored her question, glancing instead at the tray she set on the desk before him.

“What is this?” he asked, his brows drawing together in bewilderment.

For some reason, his expression made Darcie want to smooth her hand across his brow.