I picked up my black suitcase, giving a small grunt with the effort, and stepped through the gate into my new life. Just like that, I emerged from the darkness and onto the cleared and manicured estate of Lucas St. Claire. It was the highest point on the island, and I could see far into the distance, all the way to the horizon where sea and blue skies blurred together.
I took a few hesitant steps, noticing that my scuffed, black boots were a stain against the perfect green of the grass. The road that wound through the island jungle was long forgotten, with only the bright promise of a green carpet that stretched in front of me until it reached the walls of Devlin Manor.
An image of the first time I saw the estate arose in my mind, when I had seen it from afar, from a small boat that bobbed in the open waters. At the time it seemed to me a gray, hulking shadow at the top of the mountain, a fortress overlooking the waters. Now that I stood before it, I knew that my first impression was correct.
Massive stone walls, made of crushed shells rose two stories into the air. Small windows stared straight ahead, their views blinded by shutters that were fastened tight. A series of wide steps led upward from the lawn until they reached two black mahogany doors.
It was a forbidding house. My eyes darted around, longing for some reassuring sights.
My gaze came to the gardens, to the right of the building. There were walls of hedges, neatly trimmed, with a row of pink flowered hibiscus in front of them. I could see trees beyond the hedges, night jasmine and those eerie banyans, with their long roots dripping from the branches.
I realized that I was staring like a fool and remembered the instructions from my aunt’s letter. I was to go and knock and the back door, the servants’ entrance. I walked along the outer edge of the building, running my hand along the rough stone, feeling the shells as they scraped against my skin. I found the door just off the wide terrace at the back of house, overlooking the ocean. I rapped three times and a stout man opened the door. “Yes?” He spoke in a tone that indicated he was bothered.
“I am Reyna Ferraro.”
“And?” He hovered over the door.
“I am here for employment. To see Mrs. Amber.”
“Hmph. One moment please.” He turned around and shut the door behind him.
I waited, standing straight as an arrow until a middle-aged woman with brown hair that was pulled into a bun opened it again. “Reyna?” she asked in a sharp tone, but I saw from the look in her eyes that she recognized me.
It had been many years since I had seen my father’s sister, but I still felt the familiar nervousness around her. “Aunt Louisa,” I said.
She turned around, held the door open for me, and waited. “Here you call me Mrs. Amber.”
“I’m sorry, I forgot.” I quickly added, “Mrs. Amber.” There was no Mr. Amber, but my father was explicit when he told me as a child to call her Mrs. Amber.
She wore all black, right down to her black leather shoes. The only spot of color she had was a gold chain that hung from her neck and held a ring of keys that jangled as I walked past her.
She led me down a narrow hallway lined with windows that gave brief glimpses of the ocean as we walked. The waves were white capped and choppy in the distance. “You understand that you’re only here because of your father.” She spoke in a crisp manner and walked even more so and I found myself hurrying my pace to keep up with her.
“I understand.”
“Because I took pity on you. With your father—”
I interrupted her. “I know. It was hard. Things have changed so much.”
We turned the corner into a pantry of sorts. Cans of food lined the walls and at the far end, there was a door. Mrs. Amber lifted the key ring from her necklace, found the right key and unlocked the door, and we stepped into the room.
Mrs. Amber had to crowd into the front of the small room so I might enter with my bag. There was a single bed with a blue comforter, a dresser with a mirror above it, a table beside the bed and a small square window, situated right above the bed, that looked out onto the courtyard and the delivery door that I had just entered. “It’s perfect, thank you,” I said to her. “When shall I report to duty?”
“You already have.” She paused a moment, and ran the key ring up and down the necklace as she peered at me. She was younger than my father, her hair still a rich brown, and her eyes were dark as raisins. “A quick word of advice if you would like to get on here.”
“Of course.” Early, vague memories of her came rushing back, with her stiff demeanor, her brusqueness and curt disposition.
“First and foremost, you will see nothing. If you don’t know what I mean you soon will. Whatever happens here, and let me be clear, whatever happens here, you don’t see any of it. You don’t discuss it with anyone, not another servant, a guest or a friend. Do you understand me?”
A chill swept over me. “Of course,” I said. “I understand discretion.”
“This goes beyond discretion.” She took a quick, sharp glance at me. “You’ll know soon enough. But keep your mouth shut and you’ll be fine.”
“Second. Your employment is conditional from week to week. If you perform as expected it will never be a problem.”
“Fine.”
“Lastly, the door to your room will be locked behind you at 8:00 p.m. sharp and opened again at 6:00 a.m. No exceptions. If you have an emergency, you can ring the bell.” She nodded at a rope that descended through the ceiling. “But only for an emergency.”
I looked at the rope, which hung like a dead snake. “Where does it lead?”
“To my room. One last thing. A young woman, pretty, like yourself.” She cleared her throat. “Just like all the rest. Well, keep your head down and don’t get any ideas.” Her expression was stiff. “It’ll only end badly.”
“I wouldn’t dare to.”
She continued on. “I’ve seen them, like yourself, coming here young and fresh, giving him eyes. None of those girls last a month. They are always sent back. And then it’s too late. Well,” she looked at her wristwatch, “unpack. Lunch will be in an hour.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
She eyed my figure. “I need to get you a decent uniform. Your dress is almost to rags. Let me see what I have. I’ll be right back.”
The door shut behind her, and for a foolish moment I thought she would lock it. But of course, she didn’t, and I set about unpacking. The dresser was clean, and I put my clothes away.
A short time later, Mrs. Amber returned and walked into the room without knocking. She carried two dark garments in her hand and placed them on the bed. “Here. These should fit. Put one on and then meet me in the kitchen to help prepare lunch.”
After she left again, I picked up a dress. It was a somber gray, short sleeved, with a white collar. Practical. A servant’s uniform. I donned it and went to the kitchen.
Lunch was quick, and I met the staff. The rest of the afternoon, I shadowed Mrs. Amber from room to room, listening to her orders. Not once did I see Mr. St. Claire.
There was an odd thing that happened, though. We were in a bedroom and I was helping her clean beneath a bed, when the glint of something caught my eye. It was wedged between the leg of the bed and the wall, and a trick of the light made it almost seem to wink at me. Whatever it was, it gleamed gold and bright.
I pulled it out. It was a brooch, fashioned into a peacock. It was delicate and finely crafted, the tip of each feather festooned with a different colored jewel. I saw a ruby, an emerald, and jewels of every color of the rainbow. Yet for its delicacy, the piece had weight and felt solid in my palm.