“Very good,” Thomas said. “Hibbert, I would like a full inspection of the house. Every room. I want to know if anyone is here that shouldn’t be.”
“Right now, my lord?”
“Yes.”
Hibbert bowed once again and began telling different members of the staff to check certain rooms. Cook fed Thomas strawberry tarts and tea in the kitchen while he waited for over a half hour. Hibbert arrived back and bowed again. “Everything is in order, my lord. Nothing is missing and no one is here that shouldn’t be.”
“Very good, Hibbert. Thank you.”
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” Hibbert asked, but Thomas could tell that the man wanted an explanation of his request.
“Nothing at all,” Thomas said, and walked back to the empty library. He sat down at his desk, with the central heating blueprints, trying to sort out what had happened. A worker had probably been careless and left a stack of tiles precariously near the edge and they fell. He would have a word with the foreman to make sure no such accidents happened in the future. Particularly near his wife.
He had not known her long, but if Cordelia died, she would take with her all the music in his life. She was like a haunting melody that was working its way into his heart. The more he heard her, saw her, spoke with her, the more he wanted to be in her company. To touch her. She was like a spot of sunshine in an otherwise cold climate, and he longed to be near her warmth.
21
The sound of footsteps startled Cordelia awake. She sat up in bed and looked around her dark room. No one was there. She clutched her hand to her heart that was beating erratically. Perhaps it was only a bad dream—she’d nearly been killed by roof tiles yesterday. Cordelia slowly exhaled. She’d had a nightmare, that was all. Yet it had felt as if someone had been standing over her, watching her while she slept.
It was not quite morning, but Cordelia didn’t try to go back to sleep. She was too awake for that. She got out of bed, her feet cold on the floor of her drafty room, and walked over to the curtains, which she pulled open. The sun had not yet risen but was already giving out a faint light. She glanced at her door—it was wide open.
Cordelia swallowed. Her door had been closed before she went to sleep last night. Miss Vaughn had helped her undress and then she’d left through it, closing it so loudly that Cordelia had jumped. Her nerves had been on edge last night after the incident. They were still on edge this morning, but she was relieved on some level to know that she wasn’t going mad. She had heard footsteps, and whoever was in her room had left her door ajar.
For one insane moment, she remembered the ghost called the monk, who was supposed to haunt Ashdown. But ghosts didn’t open doors because there was no such thing as ghosts. She almost smiled thinking about what her old French governess would have said if Cordelia had told her she’d seen a specter. Madame Raubier would have given her a tirade and then forced her to copy down lines. Thinking of Madame Raubier helped calm Cordelia’s overwrought nerves.
She sat on the window’s ledge to watch the sunrise. Her body felt sore and stiff. She wondered if it was from the game of cricket or from being tackled by Thomas. A small smile formed on her lips. Thomas hadn’t hesitated. He’d risked his own life to save hers—the wife he didn’t want.
Wife.
The smile that had started to form fell back into her usual frown. It felt like she’d exchanged one prison room for another.
Cordelia pulled her knees against her chest, holding on to her cold toes. The sun was starting to rise, and its rays reflected onto Ashdown Pond. She untied her hair and let it fall loosely around her shoulders and down her back. She felt like Rapunzel again, but Stuyvesant wasn’t there to play Romeo. The familiar, dull ache in her chest returned for her beloved childhood friend.
He hadn’t come.
He never rescued her from her tower.
He didn’t really love her after all.
Thomas admired her—but he didn’t love her. And that wasn’t enough for Cordelia. She didn’t want his kisses if Penelope still held his heart.
Miss Vaughn walked through the open door and set down the tray of food on the table. Cordelia thanked her automatically but didn’t bother opening it. She knew that inside, there would be one small muffin and enough oatmeal to fill a thimble. The first week she’d sent her plate back to the kitchen three or four times every morning to get enough food, but she was tired of fighting with the upper staff. Clearly, Mrs. Norton and the cook didn’t approve of her. She didn’t know if it was because she was an American or because she was not an inbred English aristocrat. Part of her wished to complain to Thomas, but it felt like tattling and admitting that she wasn’t competent enough to run her own house.
“Aren’t you hungry, my lady?”
Cordelia shook her head, then stood up. “Would you please help me dress?”
“Of course, my lady,” Miss Vaughn said, then curtsied.
“You don’t have to curtsy every time you see me,” Cordelia reminded her.
“I have to, my lady. Mrs. Norton would sack me if I didn’t.”
Cordelia didn’t know what to say as Miss Vaughn fetched her an organza dress. She found it perfectly ridiculous that the upper servants wielded so much power in the house. In America, her mother had reigned supreme. The thought of a servant telling her what to do or how to behave appropriately was laughable. Her mother would never have stood for it. Cordelia needed to assert herself. She was the only reason why Ashdown Abbey hadn’t been sold—her money.
She sat motionless at the dressing room vanity while Miss Vaughn arranged her hair. The electric lights around her mirror felt bright and harsh. Shivering, she could hardly wait for the new central heating system to be completed next month. The cold draft seeped through her clothes into her skin.
Cordelia finished her toilette and then went down to the sitting room. It was the only place that she found any solace in her sadness. The only place where she didn’t have to pretend to be someone else. To be happy.
