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