Читать книгу House Of Shadows - Jen Christie - Страница 11

Chapter 2

Penrose opened her eyes, her body stiff, the dew from the evening before settled on her skin and hair. Arundell Manor stood before her, no longer ghostly, but regal, and she couldn’t stop staring at the sight. The early sun poured pink rays of light over the white stone walls. The windows—and there were dozens of them—all glistened in a gold sheen. The rich green grasses that stretched before her were silvered in morning dew. A pond, invisible to her in the night, lay under a blanket of mist. The home slept in quiet splendor.

Her gown was damp. She stood, brushing away the pine needles and drops of dew before straightening her hair and bonnet and pinching her cheeks for color. Lifting the valise, she walked along the bone-white gravel path, each step of her boots a loud crunch in the still morning air. There were forty-four steps leading to the massive front doors, she thought as she climbed and counted each one. She was aware of every move as if someone was already watching her from behind the glittering windows. Penrose couldn’t shake the sensation.

Standing in front of the brass knocker, she took a deep, steadying breath. You can do this, she told herself. The rising sun warmed her backside and seemed almost to agree. Lifting the heavy knocker, she let it fall and listened as the hammer strike echoed on and on behind the door. She waited, then waited some more, but there was no answer, so she tried again.

Finally, there came a fumbling noise; a latch turned and the door swung open. Sunlight streamed past her and into the house, striking a crystal chandelier that hung low in the foyer. Glass orbs and shards grabbed the light and tossed about a brilliant rainbow of colors, blinding her. She flinched and stepped backward, her boot heel catching on the fabric of her skirt. Down she went, limbs akimbo, the piazza floor rising up fast to greet her. But as she fell, she caught a glimpse of a man—a dark outline of his tall frame. His features were invisible against the white stone of the house.

Then the ground slapped her hard enough to rattle her teeth. So much for a good first impression. The sunlight poured relentlessly on her. She shielded her eyes and looked up.

“You find me that offensive?” His voice was low and sleep-filled, tainted with anger. No, she realized, the voice wasn’t tainted with mere anger—it was laced with something close to rage. Or worse.

From beneath her hand, her eyes darted left and right, searching for the man who spoke with such venom. “I can’t see you,” she said, feeling foolish.

A face swung into view, inches from her own. “I’m easy to miss,” he said. Eyes the color of a thousand sunsets swept over her face in a harsh gaze. Reds and purples and blues shifted and swirled within the irises. She shrank from him and sucked air into her lungs like a dying woman. Her hand fell away from her brow, revealing the man in his entirety. Stupidly, she sat there, blinking, trying to fathom exactly what she was seeing.

He stood there in the bright sunlight, white as snow, clad in black sleeping trousers and a robe that lay open to his waist. His skin was powder white—white beyond fathoming—as if milk had been added to an already pale skin tone, bringing forth an unnatural brightness. To look at him was to look upon the facets of a diamond; it hurt the eye to take him in. His muscles were etched into hard lines on his torso and he had a winter’s blaze of white hair that crowned a youthful, vigorous-looking face. All that white hair and he couldn’t be more than thirty-five. She stared, openmouthed.

“At least have the courtesy to shut your mouth while you stare at me,” he said, each word scraping out exactly as her boots had on the walkway moments before. He held out a hand.

She hesitated, swallowed hard and then finally slipped her hand into his. His hand was warm and she couldn’t help but be surprised by this. She had half expected his touch to have the cold chill of death on it. He pulled her to her feet, yanked her right up, and she stood in his shadow—for he was very tall, indeed—panting, trying to collect her thoughts.

“Well?” he said, a sneer twisting his features. Was he handsome?

“I’m sorry,” she said, her brain scrambling for words. “The agency sent me, sir. I’m here for the position.” She chanced one more look—she couldn’t help it. His face was too young, too beautiful and too strong for that white hair. And those eyes. God help her, those eyes.

He said nothing, merely watched her as she watched him. He seemed determined to shock her, unconcerned as he was with his half-dressed state. “Have you seen enough?” he finally asked. A touch of sleep lingered in the drawl of his voice, giving him an almost casual arrogance.

“I apologize,” she said, busying herself by leaning down to pick up her valise. “I was surprised, and all the lights startled me.”

He sniffed and shook his head. “The agency sent you? And who exactly are you and why did you come to my door at this ungodly hour?”

“Heatherton.” She extended her hand. “Penrose Heatherton.”

He didn’t take it. His eyes held hers. She thought of the crystal rainbow from the chandelier; the colors shifting, changing. Finally, he said, “Tell me, Miss Heatherton—”

“Yes?” She held her hand extended for another moment, a bit too long, before pulling it back and wringing both hands together awkwardly.

“Miss Heatherton,” he repeated, his Southern drawl low and conspiratorial. “Why in the world are you knocking on my door at the break of dawn?”

“The agency told me to arrive at seven a.m.” This wasn’t going well, she realized. Not at all as she had imagined it. For a lot of different reasons.

“P.M.,” he said harshly. “Post meridiem. Or generally speaking...in the evening. I told the agency specifically that I needed the applicant to show up at seven p.m.”

“Oh,” she said foolishly, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks.

His gaze skipped over hers, lowered to her lips and returned once again to her eyes. “That’s right—p.m.,” he said slowly. “So, not only are you a full day early, you reported at the wrong time. I was asleep, and now you’ve woken me.”

“I’m so sorry.” The blush in her cheeks must be red as fire, because her face burned.

“I’m certain you’ve noticed my affliction. I am cursed with paleness. A lack of pigment. Albinism.” His chin jutted into the air defiantly. “It does not lend itself to sunlight. I keep night hours, and I’m very protective of them.” He sighed, and those unapologetic eyes didn’t look away from her. “But you’re here. Though I specifically requested someone who wasn’t attractive. Makes it easier.” Those eyes still rested on her. The heat on her face grew to volcanic levels. “I take it you can read and write?”

“Of course.”

“How’s your eyesight?”

“Perfect.”

He nodded. “And your hands? Can you can handle fine tools and small mechanical parts? Smaller than a fingernail?

“I’m very sure-handed.”

“You can work the night through? Adjust to my schedule?”

“Certainly.”

“Good. It’s what I value most. That, and discretion.” He stepped aside the slightest bit to make room for her, forcing her to brush against him as she entered. “Come in.”

She took in the interior of the house with a few quick glances: white marble floors, a high ceiling—two floors high—stairs that curled in an elegant arc to the second floor, archways that led to other rooms. A huge grandfather clock began to chime. Sheets covered the furniture and paintings as if the house were bedded down while its owners were away. Splatters of rainbow light still spun over everything.

He shut the door and the blinding rainbows disappeared. When she turned around, he was beside her, almost too close. Shocked at his willingness to invade her independent space, she pulled away from him. Her reaction was an odd mix of aversion and excitement. He seemed dangerous.

He stilled. “Forgive me. My eyesight is very poor, and I am used to stepping close in order to see something.” Then, with a lingering glance, he turned around, and she knew that a moment where they might have established a cordialness between them was lost. When he spoke, it was with a firm and cold voice. “I won’t give you a tour as you’ve already interrupted my sleep. I’m heading to bed. You will start tonight.” He turned and began to climb the stairs.

She followed, taking small, anxious steps. “I’m to work your hours, then?”

“How else do you expect to be my assistant?” His voice boomed in the open space. The stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed, his black robe swirling in the air behind him.

“Of course, Mr. Arundell.”

Without turning around, he waved his hand angrily. “Don’t call me Mr. Arundell. My father was Mr. Arundell, and he’s dead now. Call me Carrick. You’ll be ready to work at dusk and you’ll be with me until dawn. The work is intense, requires a steady hand and a sharp mind. Are you certain that you’re up for the task?”

“I am.” She peered down the hall. “Is there anything you want me to accomplish before we start tonight?”

“The day is yours, Miss. Heatherton. But if I were you, I would sleep, for the night will be a long one.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You have the run of the house, except for the doors in the kitchen that lead down to the cellar. That is my workroom, and you only enter with me. The house has no staff. You’ll have to see to your own needs.” He was standing on the landing by then. “I’m sure your agency has warned you of my...disposition.”

“Yes. I’ve been warned.” Not enough, though, not enough, she thought. Or perhaps she should have listened to Charlie more closely. But, still, the pay would be worth it. She hoped.

“Good. Then I can dispense with pleasantries. You’ll find a small stairway in the second-floor hall that leads straight up to your room.”

“Fine, yes, then I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes. Tonight.” As he walked away, she was unable to tear her eyes away from his retreating form.

Then he was gone, and she stood alone in the entry hall. Or so she thought.

* * *

It was a testament to Penrose’s desperation that she stayed the day in that strange mansion. Forty-one rooms and she had walked through fourteen of them before her fear got the better of her and she went and sat in the front parlor, which was so large it was more of a great room. Not a person or servant had shown themselves, and yet the house looked well maintained and orderly. One thing drove her crazy—no matter where she went in the mansion, she could hear the grandfather clock ticking.

The front parlor had a large picture window that looked out over the front lawn. The view was like a fancy oil painting, with a serene pond and a large oak tree standing watch over it. It was easy to imagine a family gathering in this very room every evening, playing games and enjoying the twilight hours. But the eerie quiet of the house belied that image. It was a tomb. And even though the house was dead quiet, save for the clock, something else unsettled her even more. She was standing, staring out of the window and wondering exactly what it was, when the realization hit her.

It felt as if someone was watching her.

The sensation was similar to what she’d felt when she first arrived. But it didn’t seem like nonsense this time. It was very real, and she spun around, eyes darting left and right, skimming the room. What did she expect to find? This was silly. She had the sudden urge to be free of the house, to stand outside in the sun, where everything made sense. There was nothing scary with the wind in your hair and the sunshine on your cheeks.

Her mind was made up. She would go outside. As she walked from the room, she glanced at the door frame and something caught her eye. A growth chart had been carved into the frame. Names and dates were scratched into the wood, noting the heights of children as they grew. All the scratchings were muted and dulled with age.

The tallest carving was dated 1865 and inscribed with the name Carrick. Twenty-one years ago; the same year she was born. She guessed Carrick’s age at thirty-seven or so. Penrose ran her finger over the mark. He would have been too young to head off to war. She noticed other names, Carville and Sampson, that were almost as high as Carrick’s. Older brothers, she reasoned, though the last dates etched for them were 1861 and 1862.

Penrose almost missed the last marking. It was so very low on the frame. She had started to walk away when her gaze caught the raw color of the newly scratched wood. There was no date, but the scar was so fresh that it had to be recent. Only the initials C.J. were visible, carved crudely, angular and far too large.

On the other side of the door frame, there were other odd markings. Tally marks—single lines gouged in the wood, with a slash running diagonally through them. Someone was counting in blocks of five, and there were dozens and dozens of blocks. She didn’t know what to make of it and ran her fingers over the gouges, wondering.

She went outside the double doors at the rear of the house. There was a small flight of stairs that ended on a gravel path. Pecan trees dotted the rear lawn before they gave way to marshy grasses. The Ashley River flowed in the distance, dark as mud and slow as honey. Immediately, she felt better, walking along with the sweet aromas of the summer flowers perfuming the air. Honeybees flew lazy arcs around her head. She walked until the heat got the better of her.

It was getting late. She wanted to be well rested for work. When she turned around to head back inside the manor, what she saw stopped her cold. There was a stone cellar beneath the house, and in the window she saw two figures bent over as if working at a desk. For a long time, she stood there, hand on her hip, staring at the window.

They didn’t move. She walked forward, slow as molasses in winter, her eyes trained on the window. She was half expecting one of them to jump up and scare her silly just for their own amusement. But, no, they were dark and still shadows in the dull shine of the windows. Standing and staring at them, she almost wished they would jump out and scare her. At least she’d know they were real people, then.

They definitely weren’t real, or if they were, they were fantastic at posing perfectly still. There wasn’t anything human about them. The way their bodies slumped looked awkward, a position that no one could hold for very long. Resting her hand on the wall of the house, she bent over the railing and tried to get a better look.

She had to lean out quite a ways before the shine on the window disappeared and she saw them clearly. They were faceless and formless wooden beings, slumped over in their chairs. The wood was perfectly cut and shaped to form odd, rounded limbs, hands like paddles and oval-shaped heads. They had no features on their faces, only smooth, dark wood.

Much as she tried to muffle her thoughts, Charlie’s words about Carrick and voodoo spells kept popping up. What kind of man was he?

After backing away from the window, she turned and ran back into the house. She may have been desperate and the pay might have been high, but it might not be high enough to make her stay here.

She went to find her room, her skirts sweeping the floor as she walked. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, gripping the balustrade with one hand and her air-light valise in the other. A stretch of red carpet covered the hallway. Dust bunnies gathered at the edges of the baseboards.

There were so many doors. Which one was his? She slowed, listening at each door, goose bumps on her skin, afraid he would somehow know and yank open the door. But all was quiet. Finally, she found the small stairwell at the end of the hall. Grim narrow steps rose in a tight spiral, and she had to focus on her feet as she climbed. A single door welcomed her at the landing and she stepped inside a large and airy attic that had been converted into a room. Though sparsely appointed, it pleased her.

Certainly it was a huge improvement over the storage closet she’d slept in for the past six months. A bed and dresser were tucked in a corner and there was a closet against one wall. A circular window, the biggest she’d ever seen, looked out across the front lawn. She ran her hands over the sill. The ledge was big enough that she could crawl up onto the sill, curl up and survey at the grounds.

She undressed and stretched out on the bed, relaxing against the pillow. But that creeping sensation returned again, the feeling that someone was watching her. She crawled under the covers and pulled them to her chin. It helped a little bit. Dimly, she heard the grandfather clock toll eleven mellow chimes. It was still morning. It felt like a lifetime since she’d first arrived at the manor. The lids of her eyes felt heavy. She gave in to the urge and closed them.

A few moments later, a strange shuffling noise grabbed her attention. It was an odd, sliding, shifting sound, like a cotton sack being dragged along a floor. Rising and wiping the sleep from her eyes, she went to the door and looked down the stairs. They were empty. But the sound persisted. She went completely still to pay attention.

The walls. The sound was coming from within the walls. A tight wave of icy fear swept her body as she listened. What a fool she’d been to race over here and hop on the easy-money bandwagon. That scraping, swooshing noise just wouldn’t stop.

Penrose sighed. Better to know. It was always better to know.

In her white cotton underthings and with her dark hair spilled around her shoulders, she tiptoed to the wall. She pressed her ear to the wooden panels. Silence. But something or someone was there. Taking shallow breaths, she walked along slowly, swallowing often to keep the bile from her throat. Again. A scratching. Scraping. Following the noise, she traced her finger over the plaster, drawing closer to the source. When the sound increased suddenly, she knew she’d located it. The sound was low to the ground. Dropping to her knees, she pressed her head to the wall and closed her eyes. The noise was quite distinct and just on the other side.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, surprised by the sharpness in her voice.

Complete silence. Then, distantly, the sound dimmed, more scratching. Still as stone, she stood, her whole being focused on the sound as it drifted farther away until there was only the sharp, quick hiss of her own breathing. She returned to her bed shaken, convinced she’d never sleep again, let alone take an afternoon nap. But she was wrong and fell quickly asleep.

* * *

Carrick Arundell parted the thick curtains and looked out at the unfamiliar sight of the afternoon sun. He hated the day, hated that aching yellow ball inching its way across the sky. It did nothing but bruise his eyes and burn his skin. It was the night he lived for—for the long, dark hours when the world was asleep and he emerged to create his inventions.

On most mornings, the rising sun was easy to ignore. Except for today. He’d twisted and turned in bed, reluctantly watching a streak of sunlight stretch across the floor. Finally, he’d given in. There would be no sleep today.

It didn’t sit well with him. He needed his energy. A thousand small setbacks plagued his project, and every single one had to fall into place before the mechanical man took his first step.

Now he could add one more setback. An image that he couldn’t get out of his mind. His new assistant standing in the doorway, pure midnight from head to toe. Black dress, black bonnet, black hair and a winter-white face peering out at the world. Any man would be tempted. But he wasn’t any man. He couldn’t afford to be.

No, it was more than that. It wasn’t just the project. It was the sight of her stepping back, her lips curling in disdain. The poor girl could barely talk. Dropping the curtain, he went to his wardrobe and began to dress for the evening.

Maintaining focus was crucial. Every day, his eyesight grew even weaker.

There was no choice but to control his thoughts about her. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women. Quite the opposite. It was that women didn’t like him. They stepped away, turned away, or looked down at their shoes when he approached. The only companionship he’d ever known, he’d paid for. Even then, the women turned their faces away from him.

Penrose had turned away, as well, but not before he caught a glimpse of her expression in the bright flash of the lightning. She’d looked up at him in a mixture of fear and horror. He’d grown immune to such looks. But coming from her it angered him.

Long ago, his heart had turned to iron. If he had his way, he would shun everyone. Keep the whole damn world out. But he needed the help of a steady hand and a good pair of eyes. Pretty blue eyes, a voice inside him added.

He went and looked for her, and when she couldn’t be found, he went up the small flight of stairs to the servant’s bedroom. The door to her room was ajar a few inches and he peered in and saw her sleeping on the bed. Toeing the door open, he stepped inside. Maybe he should have just knocked, but it happened before he knew his foot was moving, and then he was inside the room.

He watched her sleep. It seemed wicked, an indulgence more sinful than the women he paid to lift their skirts for him. Here he was, a man of thirty-six, and he’d never once seen the serene, soft expression of a woman lost in her dreams. Her features were soft now, not guarded like when he’d first met her.

The attic was warm that afternoon. She had two high spots of color on her cheeks. Her beauty was unusual, angular even. A sharp prettiness. The kind that could cut a man. But those two spots of color flaming away against all that tumbling black hair softened her looks. She sighed, and flung an arm out, revealing bare skin all the way to the strap of her undergarment. It was damn tempting.

He heard the clock chime the half hour. A half hour of prime working time lost just watching her sleep. Like a fool.

When he reached out to wake her, he shook her much harder than he intended to. Her eyes snapped open and met his gaze. For a brief second, she looked at him openly, her expression unafraid. He wanted to stop time, to linger in that tiny moment. But then the moment was gone.

Penrose’s eyes widened and her hands clutched at the covers, instinctively pulling them higher. She was like all the rest, he realized, as he felt the shutters on his heart slam shut.