She stopped walking, her swollen foot arrested in mid-air. “Catacombs, as in, ancient tunnels? Or catacombs, as in, ancient tunnels lined with”—she almost choked on the word—“corpses?”
“The latter. This was a working abbey for centuries. Every tunnel has history embedded in its walls. The monks’ graves are recessed, and quite old. The chances of stumbling over anything unpleasant are slim. The stale air, however, I can do nothing about.”
He did not so much as slow his pace. As he was the sole possessor of both key and candle, she was forced to hobble forward on trembling limbs. She took care to focus on the flickering light ahead, rather than the crumbling walls it illuminated.
Had she thought this man merely eccentric? He was off his dot completely.
She cleared her throat. “Might I ask a question?”
“Miss Smythe,” he said firmly, without slowing or even glancing in her direction. “Let us dispense with the formality of inquiring whether or not you may inquire something. I see no need to waste valuable time granting petitions to ask questions.” When he finally glanced down at her, his eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Though we may be master and servant, if you have something to say, please say it.”
Her chin rose. How positively generous of him. He was her master now, and she did know her place. The worst part was that he wasn’t being uppity, but rather quite progressive. Most gentry would have sacked her for any one of the impertinences she’d displayed thus far. Mr. Waldegrave was perhaps too distracted—or, rather, too focused on someone other than his newest servant—to bother reprimanding her atypical behavior.
Even at her most unconventional, however, she would never choose to stroll through corpse-lined walls.
“In that case,” she said with as much composure as she could manage, “why not take the shortest pathaboveground?”
At this, he did stop. He turned, lowered the candle, and looked her dead in the eyes for a long moment before answering. “My daughter and I suffer an incurable sensitivity to the sun. Our bedchambers are in the sanctuary outbuilding, which is double-boarded and accessible only via underground passageways because natural light burns our skin on contact. Significant exposure would cause death.” He spun away from her without waiting for a reply and strode further into the gloom. “I, for one, prefer the catacombs.”
She stared after him, openmouthed. Surely he exaggerated! “Many individuals experience sensitivity to the sun and go about safely with the aid of a decent parasol. Have you considered—”
“Miss Smythe, Ihaveconsidered. What you fail to comprehend is that I do not refer to a ruddy complexion from having played one too many rounds of cricket. I am talking about blisters on every inch of exposed skin starting from the very first second of sunlight.” His voice cracked. “Burning flesh... and screams of agony.”
Violet was uncertain whether she was meant to hear that last, but if his claim of acute sun sensitivity was even halfway true, she didn’t doubt the accompanying screams of agony. In fact, were she forced to witness such a horror, like as not she’d do a fair bit of screaming herself.
“Forgive me. I have never heard of such an affliction. Medical advances—”
“—have proven themselves to be of no practical use,” he interrupted coldly. “Science and medicine alike have failed us consistently since the moment of Lillian’s birth. To wit, I dare not admit publicly that my offspring suffers such a disease, or I’m like to find her forcibly taken from me and subjected to any number of gross experiments in the name of ‘scientific research.’”
He pronounced this last as if it were the most vulgar of profanities. Violet’s skin pricked in a cold sweat. Fodder for future nightmares. Her mind was more than creative enough to imagine the atrocities men of “science” might perform on a young girl.
His voice grew deadly calm. “I will not allow such barbarity, so I have kept her existence a secret from the entire world, including all but my most trusted servants.” The shadows about him shuddered. “You, as her first governess, will be expected to do the same.”
She glanced at him askance. “First governess in... a while?”
“Ever.” His voice hardened to stone. “If hiring you turns out to be a mistake, it is not one I shall repeat. Take heed, Miss Smythe. If youeverbreathe a word of her existence, you will not like the consequences.”
Her head swam at both the threat and his anguish. Year after year of living under lock and key. Of darkness. Catacombs. And hoping for the impossible. She could at least relate to the latter.
She slid her gaze toward the ancient graves buried within the interminable tunnel. This abbey was no place for a child. Shivering, she turned back to her new employer. She couldn’t squelch the fanciful thought that the coins in her pocket were like those from the folk tale—guaranteed to always return to their owner.
She took a shallow breath and tried to think logically.
“Your daughter may be a well-kept secret, but your own existence must be widely known. Why do you not fear for your own safety?”
“My daughter is a child and an innocent. She is but nine years old. I, on the other hand, am the last male heir to a forgotten abbey. When Lillian was born, only a handful of individuals called Shrewsbury home. Those who recall the Waldegraves think me a harmless recluse, if they think of me at all. Those who have darkened my doorstep number even fewer, and have done so at my express request.”
“That may be,” she said hesitantly, “but is it not impossible to control servants’ wagging tongues?”
“I have had no such problems with mine. I keep their pockets far too well lined for them to risk being disloyal.” He cast a meaningful glance at the skirt-pocket where two gold coins burned against her leg. “You, however, I do not yet trust.”
That made two of them. Violet swallowed. Perhaps the old lady was right about striking a devil’s bargain.Know thy enemy, she reminded herself as she considered her new employer. “Is that why you demanded a minimum of one month’s employ?”
“Of course.” Something in his cold gaze indicated he’d been analyzing her more than she’d realized. “And mutual mistrust is what I suspect predicated your demand for wages in advance.” With this casually delivered observation, he released her from his gaze.
She colored. He was correct, of course, but she could scarcely come forth and agree that she’d at first thought him a childless lecher. She still did not feel safe. Now more than ever, she longed to be back at the Livingstone School for Girls. Before Old Man Livingstone had died and left paradise in the hands of true evil.
She hurried to keep pace. Moments after the tunnel intersected with another, the uneven floor finally began to incline. He halted before a scarred wooden door and drew a thick key from his pocket. Yet he paused before sliding the teeth into the lock.
