could go a whole day without hearing or seeing her.
On the morning marking the end of my first week at Shadow Bay Hall, I fluffed a pillow vigorously and pushed it behind Davenport’s back.
“I can’t abide this bed anymore,” he said grumpily. “It’s lumpy and there’s something wrong with the headboard. I think it’s lopsided.”
“Lopsided?” I regarded Davenport’s pinched face, my eyebrows raised. “Should I ask O’Shay to come and take a look?”
He shot me a look. He was getting cabin fever. Nothing was wrong with the bed. Though any attempt on my part to have the doctor visit was met with abject denial that he felt sick at all.
“I’d like more of that tincture you gave me yesterday,” he said. “My throat feels scratchy.”
“Chamomile and honey is hardly a tincture,” I said, but reached for my mahogany botany box. I selected a glass bottle with dried chamomile blossoms, dropped them in his cup, and poured some water over them with the kettle I’d brought up from the kitchen.
“And the valerian root?” he asked.
“It’s more of a muscle relaxant, Mr. Hale. I’ll make you a cup of it after you’ve walked around a bit today.”
Davenport Hale was proving a challenging man. No more temper flared like the night he’d hired me. Yet as the days wore on, he looked frailer—as if these past days were taking more out of him than thirty years of adventures.
“You know, I’m antsy being inside so much,” I said. “We haven’t been on a walk in a bit.”
“Are you?” He kept his eyes on his newspaper, The Noble Chronicle .
“Well, this is certainly a beautiful island.”
“Beyond comparison,” Davenport added.
“Truly.” I nodded and poured him some more tea. “But I do miss the beaches and open skies of California. It seems like forever since I’ve seen the sun.”
“It might come out today.” Davenport’s hand shook as he lifted the cup to his lips, and I made a mental note to ask Dr. Fliven if Davenport’s medication would cause tremors. “Not for long, mind you, not like your beloved California, but long enough to take the chill off of you. Maybe around noon, I’d say, that’s when we might get the sun.”
I’d been trying to get him to get out of bed for days, but he refused. He was either too tired, or just woke up, or he was about to go to sleep. I suspected that depression might be setting in. Staying in bed for too long wasn’t good for the mind.
“Well, I’d hate to miss it, but I wouldn’t be able to hear you from out there, and bothering Mrs. Tuttle would be rude.”
“Well, she’s got a house to run, of course,” Davenport said, but he squinted at me, thinking. “But, I suppose, if you insist on needing the sun for your health—”
“My health,” I repeated. “Yes.”
“Perhaps I can join you in the garden so that we don’t bother Tuttle. I’m not in the mood for her sulking if we interrupt her daily schedule.”
“How about we eat lunch in the garden?” I tried. “The wind has died down, and even if the sun doesn’t break through, at least the fresh air will do me good.”
“If you really want to eat out there, then I suppose it’ll be fine.” Davenport shrugged, his hands snapping the newspaper upright. “I can accommodate you, Ms. Ryan, for your health.”
He grumbled a bit when I made him take his medicine, but his mood seemed to lift.
Mine lifted too. The old house did little to help me sleep well, the creaking and groaning coupled with my restlessness made for long tiresome nights. Lying awake, Lavender’s warning about ghosts would come back to me. I needed to get outside.
We ended up disrupting a hefty portion of Mrs. Tuttle’s day. She insisted on having O’Shay drag out the garden furniture, set up a chaise longue for Davenport, and a table for me. She then went out of her way to make a meal that would be considered extravagant for high tea with the queen.
“Really, Mrs. Tuttle,” I said as I trailed
On the morning marking the end of my first week at Shadow Bay Hall, I fluffed a pillow vigorously and pushed it behind Davenport’s back.
“I can’t abide this bed anymore,” he said grumpily. “It’s lumpy and there’s something wrong with the headboard. I think it’s lopsided.”
“Lopsided?” I regarded Davenport’s pinched face, my eyebrows raised. “Should I ask O’Shay to come and take a look?”
He shot me a look. He was getting cabin fever. Nothing was wrong with the bed. Though any attempt on my part to have the doctor visit was met with abject denial that he felt sick at all.
“I’d like more of that tincture you gave me yesterday,” he said. “My throat feels scratchy.”
“Chamomile and honey is hardly a tincture,” I said, but reached for my mahogany botany box. I selected a glass bottle with dried chamomile blossoms, dropped them in his cup, and poured some water over them with the kettle I’d brought up from the kitchen.
“And the valerian root?” he asked.
“It’s more of a muscle relaxant, Mr. Hale. I’ll make you a cup of it after you’ve walked around a bit today.”
Davenport Hale was proving a challenging man. No more temper flared like the night he’d hired me. Yet as the days wore on, he looked frailer—as if these past days were taking more out of him than thirty years of adventures.
“You know, I’m antsy being inside so much,” I said. “We haven’t been on a walk in a bit.”
“Are you?” He kept his eyes on his newspaper, The Noble Chronicle .
“Well, this is certainly a beautiful island.”
“Beyond comparison,” Davenport added.
“Truly.” I nodded and poured him some more tea. “But I do miss the beaches and open skies of California. It seems like forever since I’ve seen the sun.”
“It might come out today.” Davenport’s hand shook as he lifted the cup to his lips, and I made a mental note to ask Dr. Fliven if Davenport’s medication would cause tremors. “Not for long, mind you, not like your beloved California, but long enough to take the chill off of you. Maybe around noon, I’d say, that’s when we might get the sun.”
I’d been trying to get him to get out of bed for days, but he refused. He was either too tired, or just woke up, or he was about to go to sleep. I suspected that depression might be setting in. Staying in bed for too long wasn’t good for the mind.
“Well, I’d hate to miss it, but I wouldn’t be able to hear you from out there, and bothering Mrs. Tuttle would be rude.”
“Well, she’s got a house to run, of course,” Davenport said, but he squinted at me, thinking. “But, I suppose, if you insist on needing the sun for your health—”
“My health,” I repeated. “Yes.”
“Perhaps I can join you in the garden so that we don’t bother Tuttle. I’m not in the mood for her sulking if we interrupt her daily schedule.”
“How about we eat lunch in the garden?” I tried. “The wind has died down, and even if the sun doesn’t break through, at least the fresh air will do me good.”
“If you really want to eat out there, then I suppose it’ll be fine.” Davenport shrugged, his hands snapping the newspaper upright. “I can accommodate you, Ms. Ryan, for your health.”
He grumbled a bit when I made him take his medicine, but his mood seemed to lift.
Mine lifted too. The old house did little to help me sleep well, the creaking and groaning coupled with my restlessness made for long tiresome nights. Lying awake, Lavender’s warning about ghosts would come back to me. I needed to get outside.
We ended up disrupting a hefty portion of Mrs. Tuttle’s day. She insisted on having O’Shay drag out the garden furniture, set up a chaise longue for Davenport, and a table for me. She then went out of her way to make a meal that would be considered extravagant for high tea with the queen.
“Really, Mrs. Tuttle,” I said as I trailed
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