“Steady there,” someone cautioned. Esme recognized the voice as Callum’s.
“I have it,” came the reply.
It was the mysterious warrior, Esme realized. He had lifted a heavy-looking trunk and was carrying it with ease. He walked with long strides over to the waiting cart and deposited it in the back.
“Is there much else?”
His deep voice did something to her insides. His accent was not dissimilar to Callum’s; the broad vowels of north England mixed with just a trace of Scottish lilt.
She must thank him, for this reprieve he had granted her.
Esme released the oilcloth and spun from the window, newly filled with resolve. She would don her loveliest gown and ensure she looked her best to make this speech of thanks. She recalled the warrior’s disinterest yesterday; the way he had not responded to Callum’s entreaties, even though Callum later claimed that Adam was as close as kin.
Well, kin ofttimes ignored one another. She knew that well enough.
Still, Adam’s detachment meant he was a puzzle she was keen to solve.
But no sooner had she pulled a suitable gown from her closet than she realized her mistake. She needed a maid’s assistance to lace it, and ’twas unlikely any maid could be spared this morn. Even yesterday, when all was calm, the housemaid had helped her dress with an ill sort of grace.
Mayhap I should make more of an effort with the servants at Ember Hall.
What was the maid’s name? She looked familiar and perchance had served Frida for as long as Frida had resided here.
Esme frowned with effort. Frida always referred to her servants by name.
Jennifer.That was it.
But knowing her name altered naught. Frida and Callum were soon to depart, and Esme could not bid them farewell in her night clothes. She selected a simple day dress in muted green which buttoned down the front, splashed cold water onto her cheeks from the pitcher, and dragged a comb through her long hair, wincing at the tangles. There was not enough light to judge her reflection in the looking glass, so Esme had to assume her efforts were satisfactory. Picking up her candle, she left the quiet of her bedchamber and stepped out into a house transformed by unfamiliar bustle.
The housemaid,Jennifer, scurried past, holding a pile of linens and muttering, “Beg pardon, milady.”
Grateful for the width of the gallery, Esme darted to the side and narrowly missed her nephew, Christopher, who was on his hands and knees by the paneled wall.
“Good gracious.” She put a hand to her racing heart.
“I’m looking for my ball.” Christopher looked entreatingly up at her.
Esme had rarely been called upon to be so helpful so early in the morning.
“What color is it?” She picked up her skirts and dropped to her knees beside him. Wall torches cast pools of light onto the gallery, but very little daylight came through the arched window at the end of the gallery.
“Blue.”
“How big?” she asked incredulously.
Christopher opened his hands, miming a ball the size of a chicken.
Esme remained skeptical. “I shall help you look.”
His smile of thanks melted her heart, despite the hardness of the floor beneath her knees. She made slow progress crawling down the length of the gallery, running her hands over the notched floorboards in the hope of encountering Christopher’s lost ball. She kept her eyes trained downwards, and did not notice the booted feet standing at the end of the gallery until she was almost upon them.
“I believe I have something of yours,” someone spoke with a deep, gravelly voice.
“My ball!” Christopher cried.
Esme was conscious of her undignified position on the floor, but she had no choice but to look up and see Adam proffering a gaily painted wooden ball toward the small boy.
“Thank you.” Christopher clutched the ball to his chest as if it was treasure.
