“Should we be afraid?” I whisper, a little panicky.
“Of old Lord Routledge? Goodness no, don’t be daft!” Darcie scoffs.
Ms. Fernsby tears up as she speaks. “If you are there, I do wish you could see our Mabel. You’d be so proud. She’s doing so well. She’s making good grades this second time at uni. She’s working so hard at the coffee bar. She wants to be a solicitor, and she will even if she’s a bit late in the game. She’ll make an extraordinary one.”
It’s quiet again. The Persian cat relaxes, settles on the rug. And yet all the cats glare at a fixed point in the room. The candelabra flames flicker. Admittedly, it’s a little strange.
“Did he hear me?” Ms. Fernsby asks desperately.
Darcie wrinkles her nose, pushes up her glasses. “He did. He’s glad for all that. But he does want you to know that hewould like his old upstairs suite repainted butterscotch yellow and to use a new draper for the room. This time, Buford and Sons.”
Ms. Fernsby grips the pearl necklace around her throat. “I don’t understand.”
Darcie sighs, waves her hand in the air. “Get away from here. You’ve said enough and my cats don’t like you.”
I’m not sure if it’s the second glass of brandy, but I feel the air loosening like a relaxed cord. We’re quiet, staring at each other as a clock chimes from somewhere in the house.
“Was he like that when he was alive?” Darcie asks.
“Like what?”
“Like a bloody twat.”
“No... well... he was particular about how I kept the house.”
Darcie shakes her head. “You don’t work for him anymore, luv. You don’t keep that house for him anymore. You don’tneedhim anymore. If you want to stay in the house because you enjoy taking care of it, fine. But don’t do it oranythingelse for him.” She shivers. “Good heavens, I’m glad he’s out of my house.”
A tear slides down Ms. Fernsby’s powdered cheek. She might be employed by the Routledge estate, but all the scrubbing, dusting, and cleaning she does is for him.
She’s still in love with him.
Darcie sighs, refilling our snifters before settling back in her chair heavily. “Give him up, Annabel. He was never worth it.”
Ms. Fernsby’s hand trembles as she lifts the glass to her lips.
Although admittedly, some weird Victorian shit just went down, I’m still struggling to believe that Mr. Routledge was here in this room with us. But Ms. Fernsby looks shaken, as if she’s been touched by a ghost.
“You know,” Ms. Fernsby says softly, “my first day at therow house, thirty years ago, he did give me an entire day of training for how his shoes were supposed to be arranged in the closet. He had a closetful and was meticulous about the order in which the pairs were organized. And although he would send the most extravagant gifts, he didn’t come to a single one of Mabel’s birthdays.”
“Be done with him, Annabel. He’s dead.”
We’re all quiet. Ms. Fernsby dabs her eyes with a handkerchief.
Darcie kindly places her hand over Ms. Fernsby’s on the table. “Do you think, after all these years, you can finally give him up?”
“Maybe.”
“I think you can, Annabel. I think youshould.”
Ms. Fernsby nods. “And what about her Philip? He’s the one I was hoping we’d see.”
Darcie looks at me, a strange expression on her face. “We’ll give it a try.”
Once Ms. Fernsby calms, Darcie closes her eyes, and we wait.
My heart speeds up. If Philip could come back to me, he would.
I wait, watch for the cats to start getting restless. I stare at the candelabra, willing it to start flickering. Please,pleaseflicker... Dosomethingunexpected...
