At this point, I’d risk typhus fever just for the sound of another voice. Even as I search the interior, calling out her name, she never answers. Just silence.
Close to the end of week three, I catch sight of a shirtless man in the orchard behind the lawn. He’s black-haired, muscular, tan, and wearing faded jeans. His back is turned as he repairs what looks like a section of fence. My pulse stutters. Finally, another human being.
I hurry across the grounds, my heart racing with the prospect of actual connection. But the closer I get, the faster he seems to work, until he’s packing up his tools and about to disappear behind a cluster of apple trees. If this is the same groundskeeper who avoided me last time, I’d better not scare him away with my thirst.
But by the time I reach the orchard, he’s already taken his bag, leaving no trace he existed apart from the fresh tool marks in the wood.
“Hello?” I call out, cringing at my own desperation. “I just wanted to introduce myself!”
Nothing. Not even rustling leaves.
Determined not to be ignored again, I push deeper into the grounds, past the edge of the orchard bordered by large chestnut trees. My surroundings become overgrown, filled with unpruned shrubs. I continue onward,foliage snagging my uniform until I stumble into a cracked path leading to a gardener’s cottage. It’s nearly hidden behind a tangle of briar and honeysuckle.
The place looks abandoned to the elements. Moss grows on its roof, and the windows are spider-webbed with cracks. Yellowed curtains hang in the windows like dead skin. As I circle the structure, looking for signs of life, the hair on my body stands on end.
Someone’s watching me.
I spin around, scanning the tree line, toward the windows of the manor house, anywhere eyes might be hiding. But there’s nothing. No footsteps. No birdsong. Even the wind has stopped.
Or maybe it’s the ringing in my ears.
A shudder tears down my spine. If this groundskeeper doesn’t want to talk to me, I really shouldn’t push. I turn on my heel and walk back to Rochester Manor without daring a backward glance, but I swear those invisible eyes bore into my spine the entire way.
That evening, I take the longest shower possible, letting the hot water pound against my neck until my skin feels blistery. When I step out in a towel to get dressed, I spot a folded piece of paper on the floor by my door.
I pad toward it, my breath quickening, and pick it up. In a neat, slanted script that belongs in a museum is a note that says:
You should have waved back.
The heat from my shower evaporates, and my blood turns to ice. Without thinking, I unlock the door and check the hallway, only to find it empty. Just shadows and the faint scent of medicine. I retreat into the room andexamine the note. The writing is elegant, slanted, almost old-fashioned. Definitely male.
I pace my room like a caged animal, turning the note over in my hands. There’s only one person who could have written that message: the masked man from the first night. He’d waved, but I ignored him. Now, he’s pissed.
A sharp knock interrupts my spiral into paranoia.
I freeze, my heart rattling against my ribs. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Fairfax,” says a familiar voice.
Shoulders sagging, I crack the door open, relieved at the sight of the older woman’s massive silhouette. She’s in the same black dress, same face mask, and the same hawkish glower.
“Yes?” I rasp.
“Mr. Rochester wishes to see you in his study.”
“He does?” I ask.
“Now.”
She turns and walks away, leaving me staring at her broad back. Her heavy footsteps echo down the hallway like drumbeats.
My heart flutters. Sensations travel south. Fear and anticipation knot together like barbed wire. Finally, after nearly a month of silence, Mr. Rochester wants my attention.
I don’t care what he wants.
As long as he doesn’t send me back.
TEN
