faint, lingering smell of the boeuf bourguignon hung in the air.
She fussed with the stove, then with the dishcloths, turning them where they hung to dry. Then she slipped into the cold store to check her brioche dough, and as she smoothed the damp cloth back over the bowl, she admitted to herself she was simply trying to stay busy.
She walked back into the kitchen and stood silent for a long moment, listening. Edgars was either in his rooms, right next to her own, or above, waiting for Aldridge to return.
She wanted to go out. And what did it matter if the new cook took the air late at night? It might even be advisable to set a precedent where that was concerned.
Before she could reconsider, she was up the back stairs, turning the big iron key in the lock and stepping out into the night.
She took the key with her and locked the door, unwilling to be locked out by mistake. She lifted her skirt and slipped it into one of her hidden petticoat pockets, and it knocked against the side of her knee as she started walking to the lane that ran along the back of the houses.
The alley wasn’t as straight as Chapel Street, twisting and winding along the rear gardens like a cat weaving through legsin a crowd. It had no lights, either. The darkness was why she had chosen to go this way.
Up ahead, the bulky shape of Goldfern rose above its stone garden walls in the weak light of a half moon.
The lane was narrow, just wide enough for a single cart, and it smelled of sewage, rotting cabbage and the throat-catching odor of dead rat.
It was at least paved with cobbles, but they were slick with grime and she had to keep her wits as she walked on them.
The door to Goldfern’s gardens was poorly maintained, the paint peeling off it, and it didn’t sit flush with the thick stone wall into which it was set.
This was so surprising to her that she stared at it a moment. Perhaps the other side looked very different. No servant would expect either her or her father to step out of the back door into this lane. Yet she shivered, somehow disturbed.
She turned the handle, but the door was either locked or so swollen in its frame that it wouldn’t budge. She hadn’t expected it to be that easy, anyway.
She could turn around now and go back, but the thought of sleep was still so unwelcome, she stepped closer to the wall and ran her hands over the stones.
There were plenty of cracks and tiny ledges in the uneven stonework for her to climb up, even though she was still in her smart wool dress and leather shoes, rather than the gákti and boots the Sami had given her to climb with. She and her father had been taken into the mountains in Lapland near theNorwegian border by the Sami people they had being staying with, and she had loved it.
If she hadn’t been her father’s companion, traveling Europe and beyond like a nomad to collect stories for his collection, she would have been forced to turn around and trudge back to Aldridge House. But she had been his companion. She knew she could do this.
She stretched up and caught her first hold, bracing her foot and pulling herself up, hand over hand, until she was balancing on top of the wall. It had taken less than two minutes.
She crouched on the wide ledge and turned her attention to Goldfern. She would rather see what she could from here than risk dropping to the ground inside and having difficulty getting back.
The minutes ticked by, the house lying still and silent, and the chill of the stone began to seep through the soles of her shoes and into her palms. She lifted her hands and laid them on her thighs to ease the bite.
There was nothing obviously wrong, nothing to see, but still she waited, the sight of her family home reminding her of happier times.
She was about to clamber down when a light flared behind a window, spilling out from a crack in the curtains and illuminating a small slice of garden.
She froze.
Whoever it was didn’t linger, moving to the next room and then the
She fussed with the stove, then with the dishcloths, turning them where they hung to dry. Then she slipped into the cold store to check her brioche dough, and as she smoothed the damp cloth back over the bowl, she admitted to herself she was simply trying to stay busy.
She walked back into the kitchen and stood silent for a long moment, listening. Edgars was either in his rooms, right next to her own, or above, waiting for Aldridge to return.
She wanted to go out. And what did it matter if the new cook took the air late at night? It might even be advisable to set a precedent where that was concerned.
Before she could reconsider, she was up the back stairs, turning the big iron key in the lock and stepping out into the night.
She took the key with her and locked the door, unwilling to be locked out by mistake. She lifted her skirt and slipped it into one of her hidden petticoat pockets, and it knocked against the side of her knee as she started walking to the lane that ran along the back of the houses.
The alley wasn’t as straight as Chapel Street, twisting and winding along the rear gardens like a cat weaving through legsin a crowd. It had no lights, either. The darkness was why she had chosen to go this way.
Up ahead, the bulky shape of Goldfern rose above its stone garden walls in the weak light of a half moon.
The lane was narrow, just wide enough for a single cart, and it smelled of sewage, rotting cabbage and the throat-catching odor of dead rat.
It was at least paved with cobbles, but they were slick with grime and she had to keep her wits as she walked on them.
The door to Goldfern’s gardens was poorly maintained, the paint peeling off it, and it didn’t sit flush with the thick stone wall into which it was set.
This was so surprising to her that she stared at it a moment. Perhaps the other side looked very different. No servant would expect either her or her father to step out of the back door into this lane. Yet she shivered, somehow disturbed.
She turned the handle, but the door was either locked or so swollen in its frame that it wouldn’t budge. She hadn’t expected it to be that easy, anyway.
She could turn around now and go back, but the thought of sleep was still so unwelcome, she stepped closer to the wall and ran her hands over the stones.
There were plenty of cracks and tiny ledges in the uneven stonework for her to climb up, even though she was still in her smart wool dress and leather shoes, rather than the gákti and boots the Sami had given her to climb with. She and her father had been taken into the mountains in Lapland near theNorwegian border by the Sami people they had being staying with, and she had loved it.
If she hadn’t been her father’s companion, traveling Europe and beyond like a nomad to collect stories for his collection, she would have been forced to turn around and trudge back to Aldridge House. But she had been his companion. She knew she could do this.
She stretched up and caught her first hold, bracing her foot and pulling herself up, hand over hand, until she was balancing on top of the wall. It had taken less than two minutes.
She crouched on the wide ledge and turned her attention to Goldfern. She would rather see what she could from here than risk dropping to the ground inside and having difficulty getting back.
The minutes ticked by, the house lying still and silent, and the chill of the stone began to seep through the soles of her shoes and into her palms. She lifted her hands and laid them on her thighs to ease the bite.
There was nothing obviously wrong, nothing to see, but still she waited, the sight of her family home reminding her of happier times.
She was about to clamber down when a light flared behind a window, spilling out from a crack in the curtains and illuminating a small slice of garden.
She froze.
Whoever it was didn’t linger, moving to the next room and then the
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