Chapter 4

Chapter Four

W alking up the oak-lined drive to Bottoms House the next morning, Xenia felt a renewed sense of optimism.

I've made the right choice.

Although this was only her second visit, there was a comforting familiarity to the surroundings. She guessed the manor was old, its limestone walls mellowed by the passing years. The gabled roof looked slightly newer, as did the three rows of sash windows. The size of the house was just right in her opinion: not too big or small. In Chuddums, people had spoken fearfully of the manor being haunted, but to her it seemed to offer shelter without pretension.

A sudden image flashed in her head: a traveler lost in a storm, whipped by rain and wind as lightning split the sky. Wet to the bone, she was out of options until she came upon this manor blazing in the darkness. Hope bloomed that it would offer temporary refuge, a respite from the evil that was pursuing her...

She blinked, and the image faded.

Your imagination is running wild. Focus, Xenia.

At the servants' entrance, she was met by Brunswick. The butler reminded her of a mastiff with his wrinkled forehead and sagging jowls. Although he had a gruff manner, he was kind, insisting on carrying her sparse belongings to her new attic quarters despite the clumsily wrapped bandage on his hand. When she inquired about his injury, he admitted that he'd hurt himself preparing breakfast.

Since she had experience dealing with injuries—one of the few advantages of being a cutthroat's daughter—she offered to look at his hand. It was a good thing she did, for the wound needed proper care. After cleansing it, she applied a healing salve she'd concocted containing honey, rosemary, and calendula. Then she rewrapped his hand with clean linen.

Waving aside Brunswick's effusive thanks, she asked what tasks she ought to tackle first. He told her that the priority was to set up the delivery of foodstuffs from the village. When he gave her a list of the master's favorite meals, she tried not to let her trepidation show. She hadn't prepared most—all right, any —of the dishes before…but there was a first time for everything, wasn't there? Compared to the work she'd done, how difficult could it be to make blood pudding?

Pretend until it's true .

She gave Brunswick the smile of a woman who knew what she was doing and set off on the mile-long trek to Chuddums.

The first time she'd gone to the village, the rain had obscured her view. Today, the sky was clear, and as the path sloped downward to her destination, she saw Chuddums in its full glory…or, more aptly, with its warts and all. Situated on a low-lying riverbank of the Thames, Chuddums bore an unfortunate resemblance to a cesspit. The recent rains had turned the roads into muck. The village's ramshackle buildings sagged against one another like friendly drunks. The patching of cottage roofs reminded her of a tattered quilt that wasn't sufficiently large to cover all the important parts, leaving one's toes cold.

As she entered Chuddums, she was greeted with curious looks and a few suspicious ones. Keeping her head ducked out of habit, she followed High Street to the village center, noting the mix of lodging houses, pawnshops, and public houses. Arriving at the square, she saw that the four main streets surrounded a village green…which was more brown due to the lack of grass and abundance of mud. A giant, bare-branched tree stood at the center. Around the square's border, only half the buildings boasted businesses; the rest were vacant.

"Hullo there!"

She turned to see a fellow wearing an old-fashioned top hat and checkered red coat waving as he approached her. Seeing that he relied on a cane and walked in shuffling steps, she met him halfway. Up close, he looked positively ancient…in his nineties, if he was a day. His wizened visage and lively black eyes reminded her of a turtle.

"Good morning, sir," she said politely. "May I help you?"

"Help me ?" He chuckled. "No, dear Rosalinda. It's me, Wally."

"You must have me mistaken for someone else, sir." Seeing his confusion, she said gently, "My name is Jane Wood, and I'm the new housekeeper at Bottoms House."

"You are sure you're not Rosalinda?" he asked, frowning.

"Quite sure."

He sighed. "Sometimes I get muddled."

"We all do, from time to time." She smiled. "Regardless, it is nice to see a friendly face."

He perked up. "As the official guide of Chuddums, it would be my honor to escort you to your destination. Where to, Mrs. Wood?"

She consulted her list. "My first stop is the butcher shop."

"Then it's Mr. Bailey you ought to see. Follow me, follow me."

Xenia didn't have the heart to abandon Wally, even though his rheumatism kept them at a snail's pace. Her guide took his job seriously, however, pointing out highlights such as a newly installed lamppost and a flower box that had been savaged by Mrs. Elmwood's cat Fenwyck. According to Wally, the felonious feline had also knocked over rubbish bins and dug up Mrs. O'Hara's prized flower garden. Since Fenwyck was sneaky, he had never been caught red-pawed, and his owner staunchly maintained his innocence.

"If you catch Fenwyck in the act"—Wally wagged a finger at her—"be sure to let me know. I am collecting evidence against him."

"I will, sir," Xenia promised.

They arrived at a shop with a string of fowl hanging in the window. When Wally struggled to open the door for her, she did it herself, thanking him and reminding him of others who might require his services. Bowing, he hurried off…well, as much as Wally could hurry.

The interior of the butcher shop was shabby and cramped. The products appeared to be of good quality, however, and fresh sawdust covered the floor. Garlands of sausages adorned the walls, and a selection of meats was displayed on a counter. The butcher, standing by a row of joints, looked as if he'd been a prizefighter in his former life. Or maybe in his current life, given his shiner of a right eye. His substantial black moustache seemed to compensate for the lack of hair on his head, and his bare, bulging arms bracketed his leather apron.

"Welcome to my establishment, miss." His soft-spoken manner was at odds with his strapping exterior. "I'm Mason Bailey, butcher and purveyor o' Chuddums's finest meats. I ain't seen you around before. New in town, are you?"

Keep it simple. Tell him only what is necessary.

"I am Jane Wood, sir," she said. "The new housekeeper at Bottoms House."

Mr. Bailey raised his thick brows. "Are you indeed? Brave one, ain't you?"

She supposed working for a man like Lord Ethan Harrington required a certain amount of pluck. Since he was supplying her with a generous salary and a roof over her head, however, she'd decided to let bygones be bygones.

"My master's bark is worse than his bite, and I'm grateful for the job."

"I ain't talking about the toff." Bailey raised his hands and wriggled stubby fingers. "I'm talking about Bloody Thom."

Oh, right . The ghost. Curiosity got the better of her.

"Has anyone actually seen the ghost?" she asked.

"To be sure." Bailey nodded vigorously. "Through the years, there've been multiple sightings, and one 'appened recently. Nelly Nettles—she was your master's last cook—woke up one night and saw an apparition standing in the doorway of her room. She said his face was white as snow, his eyes darker than midnight, and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Chains were wrapped around his body." The butcher shuddered. "He howled in pain before clanking off."

A delicious shiver ran through Xenia, the kind she experienced when reading her favorite gothic novels.

"Where did he go? What did he do next?" she asked.

"Nelly couldn't say since she fell into a dead swoon. When she came to, Bloody Thom was gone. She didn't 'ave a mind to linger herself and gave notice immediately."

"Why is the ghost named Bloody Thom? Has he…has he killed someone?"

"You don't know the story?" Bailey stared at her as if she'd confessed to not knowing the Lord's Prayer. "A rich bloke by the name o' Thomas Mulligan bought Bottoms House some eighty-odd years ago. According to legend, a witch sought shelter at his manor, and he turned her away. She cursed him, and not long after, he was found shot dead in his own home."

"Heavens," Xenia breathed.

"Since then, every owner o' Bottoms House has suffered misfortune, and it got to be that no one would go near the place. It sat empty for years before your master moved in."

The tingle tiptoed up her spine. The only thing better than a ghost story was one that had a curse .

"There's more. When the villagers discovered the witch 'ad killed Mulligan, they tried to hunt her down. A local hero named Pearce—you'll see his monument in the square—led the charge and was found dead in his home."

Xenia gasped. "She killed two men?"

"Not only that, but she cursed the entire village. Before Mulligan's arrival, we had spas to rival Bath, but the springs began to dry up. Now there's only one spa left, and it's barely staying afloat. We used to produce some o' the finest fruit in the county, then all the crops failed. Our bustling market once attracted visitors from near and far. Now 'alf our buildings lay vacant or house disreputable businesses." He counted out the misfortunes on his sausage-like fingers, his expression glum. "To heap insult on injury, the village has been rechristened Chuddums . We're considered the latrine o' Berkshire. No one stays if they 'ave a way out."

"Why do you stay?" she asked.

Instantly, she chided herself for concerning herself with others' problems. That was how things had started with Tony: she'd wanted to help him with his writing career and his gambling habit. Not only had she not helped him, but she'd gotten her heart broken and exposed herself to her enemy. She'd been forced to flee London with her mama's lackeys snapping at her heels. If she hadn't managed to give them the slip…she shuddered at the punishments her mama might have meted out.

"My family's been here for three generations. No Bailey 'as ever left Chuddums, and I ain't about to be the first…"

When he trailed off, she followed the direction of his gaze. Two coves stood outside the shop window. Their dark caps with lowered brims and flashy neckerchiefs told her what they were.

Trouble.

"I'd best be filling your order, Mrs. Wood, and letting you get on."

In a blink, Mr. Bailey lost his affability, becoming anxious and twitchy. His transformation confirmed her hypothesis about the brutes lying in wait. Although a part of her wanted to ask if he needed help, she stopped herself.

You cannot afford to get tangled up in trouble. You have enough of your own. Move on.

She gave the butcher her ingredient list. He packed what she could carry, promising to deliver the rest, then nearly shoved her out the door. She hadn't gone but a few steps when the pair of cutthroats prowled inside.

She forced herself to continue with her errands.

A few doors down was Pickleworth's Produce, and the greengrocer was advertising his goods outside his shop. He had brown hair, twinkling eyes, and was a bit over four feet tall. He stood on a crate, holding a plate of sliced tomatoes.

"Ripe tomatoes," he announced in a rich, booming voice. "Come get your ripe and juicy tomatoes!"

As Xenia wasn't partial to tomatoes, she politely declined a sample. Unfortunately, the greengrocer took her refusal to try his fruit as a personal affront. To smooth things over, she went into the shop and arranged produce delivery with his wife, a pretty blonde who introduced herself as Loretta Pickleworth. Xenia went on to complete transactions with the cheesemonger, baker, and others.

Her errands completed, she was still worried about Mr. Bailey. She thought about checking in on him but abruptly changed direction, her heavy shopping basket banging against her hip. She took a shortcut through the village green to avoid the temptation of getting involved in the butcher's problems. Her extensive knowledge of cutthroats told her that she couldn't help him and would only risk her own hard-won freedom.

At the center of the square, she spotted the monument Mr. Bailey had mentioned and stopped to look. Sitting beneath the bare branches of a large, withered tree, the small slab of reddish stone bore a rusty plaque.

In memory of Langdon Pearce

Hero and Soldier of Justice

May He Rest in Peace

An eerie sensation brushed over Xenia's nape. She took a hasty step back, nearly bumping into a glass-fronted box…the village notice board, where announcements were made. The pinned notices were all items for sale, most at steep discounts because the owners were moving in a hurry.

Mr. Bailey appeared to be right. No one stayed in Chuddums unless they had to.

Later that evening, Xenia flopped onto her new bed. She removed her heavy spectacles, rubbing at the indent on the bridge of her nose as she stared up at the ceiling. She was in that peculiar state of being both exhausted and wide awake.

She'd spent the last few hours preparing meals for the morrow. Cooking had proved harder than she expected. Unfortunately, Mr. Bailey had been out of blood sausage, her new master's favorite breakfast dish, which meant she'd had to make it from scratch. She'd located a volume of recipes at the village's only purveyor of books, a circulating library which, oddly enough, was called "Hatcherds." She didn't know if the name was an intentional misspelling of the famous London bookshop or merely a bit off-kilter, much like the village itself.

Sadly, her assumption that if one could read a recipe, one could cook proved to be untrue. She had no idea how the blood sausage or other dishes she'd sweated over would turn out.

Edible, hopefully.

There was naught she could do about it now. Moreover, she had other worries, triggered by those cutthroats outside Mr. Bailey's shop. How many criminals operated in the village? Would any of them recognize her from the years she'd spent in her mother's infamous roving gang? Did the brutes draw the attention of the local constabulary? Would she be safe hiding in Chuddums?

Will I always be a fugitive from my past?

Memories ambushed her. The narrow, soot-filled chimneys her mama had forced her to climb down. Get inside and unlock the door, daughter mine, or you'll feel my wrath. The abhorrent things she'd been required to do, the constant running and fear of being caught. The only safety had been her papa's arms…until he'd been ripped from her too. Xenia buried her face in the pillow, trying to shut out the memories, but they came at her like her mother's punishments, the blows she'd earned each time she'd tried to run away. Like the chains her mama had used to hold her captive, the starvation wielded to break her will.

You cannot escape, you worthless, stupid girl. I will always hunt you down.

Xenia had escaped, but at what cost? The memory of Mr. Trelawney choked her with grief. The owner of the quaint Cornish bookshop had given her shelter and friendship, and how had she repaid him? She felt his blood oozing between her fingers, the shallow rise and fall of his last breaths. She relived the moment when his clear blue eyes went blank.

Guilt punched her in the throat, and she fought the hot push of tears. Crying changed nothing. Remembering changed nothing. Even hiding was futile, for where could she find shelter from the despicable life she'd led?

Yet she had to keep running. Had to escape her destiny.

Had to be someone other than who she was.

Pretend until it's true.

Scrubbing her eyes, she sat up and exhaled. She performed her ablutions at the washstand, then went looking for her hairbrush. Her one vanity was her hair; although she dulled its color out of necessity, she still brushed it one hundred strokes each evening to maintain its luster. Searching through her things, she was chagrined to realize that she must have left her brush behind at the Nunnery.

Perhaps the previous occupant left a few things?

Without much hope, she went to the dressing table and pulled on the drawer. It took a few tries as the sticky drawer refused to budge. When she succeeded, she squealed with delight at what she found inside: a hairbrush…and it was exquisite . The beechwood handle was smooth and designed to fit a lady's hand, and a beautiful rose design was carved on the back. Eagerly, she ran the brush through her hair, sighing at the luxurious prickle of the boar bristles.

She'd reached sixty-nine strokes when she heard a sound in the corridor. She paused mid-stroke, and the noise came again.

Thump thump thump.

Footsteps? Was someone approaching?

Setting down the brush, she hurried to the door and poked her head out.

Thump thump.

The sound was coming from the far end of the corridor. From behind the mysterious locked door. If those were footsteps…was someone locked in there?

You won't like what is inside, Lord Ethan had said.

Was he hiding something? What kind of skeletons would he have rattling in his closet?

Her eyes widened as the realization struck her.

Maybe he isn't hiding skeletons but a ghost .

A chill snaked up her spine. Lord Ethan had insisted that ghosts did not exist, but according to Mr. Bailey, Nelly Nettles had seen Bloody Thom with her own eyes. Curiosity yanked at Xenia. If the manor was haunted, shouldn't she know about it…for her own safety? She could take a quick peek, and if anything was amiss, she would make a run for it.

Decision made, she grabbed her keys and headed to the forbidden room.