The Secret of Hollyfield House by Jude Bayton (first ebook reader TXT) 📕

hand shook as I reached for the bell-pull, and its trill ring pierced the quiet of evening. Footsteps approached from within and my emotions became conflicted. I yearned to be inside a warm safe-haven, yet felt anxious that I had arrived at my destination where I knew not one soul.

The heavy door swung open to reveal an elderly man, white-haired and somberly dressed. His clothing was dapper enough to be a gentleman’s, but his diminutive bearing at once declared his status as servant. He did not ask me to come in, but I basked in the light which flowed invitingly behind him.

“Good evening, miss.” His voice, eloquent yet disdainful, conveyed a tone which intimated that I should be stood at the servants’ entrance. This impression was likely based upon my lack of finery. I looked as I was—poor.

I steeled myself. “Good evening. My name is Kathryn Westcott, and I am come to see Lady Clayton.” His eyes flickered momentarily. He was no doubt surprised by my accent. He had obviously expected my speech to be that of a common girl.

The old man nodded. “You are late,” he said without ceremony and gestured for me to enter. He closed the door behind me, and my relief was instantaneous now that I was out of the damp night air. I set my bags down and stared at the butler.

“Wait here,” he commanded and walked away through the foyer down a well-lit hallway. As soon as he departed, I quickly examined my surroundings.

Several gas lamps were affixed to the walls, their sconces radiating soft yellow light which illuminated the scene before me. The space was immense, the floors made of polished marble. Two large pieces of statuary stood sentry either side of a staircase wide enough for a small carriage to pass between its carved bannisters. A majestic crystal chandelier hung like a stalactite, suspended from the painted fresco ceiling which depicted the heavens and what surely were gods, though which beings I could not say. Its magnificence exceeded my expectations.

A low murmur of voices escaped as a door opened and closed in the distance. The returning footsteps of the butler drew near. He stopped and extended a gnarled hand.

“This way if you please, Miss Westcott.”

I glanced down at my valise and suitcase. The old man noticed my consternation and nodded to leave them where they stood. I took a deep breath and followed him down the hall.

As we entered the drawing room, its sudden warmth engulfed my cold bones, though my nerves still chattered. Inside the room, thick Aubusson carpets cushioned my step, and lavish fabrics and ornate furniture surrounded me. Yet I absorbed none of it in my present state of mind. The butler announced my name and, at once, a figure rose from a winged-back chair placed close to the blazing fire. As she approached, my eyes slaked across the woman’s face, the elegant arrangement of her white hair and the length of her silken-clad figure. My feeling of uncertainty now I finally saw her in the flesh completely consumed me. Until this precise moment, the woman had been surreal, a fictional character in a popular novelette. Yet here she stood, the woman I had come to loathe through the words of her daughter, my dearest friend, Aramintha.

In a flash, I absorbed her features. The harsh jaw, thin lips, aquiline nose. Her skin like pale chiffon, soft with delicate creases, which changed the topography of her face. A striking woman, even in her sixties, she must surely have been a beauty in her youth.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Westcott.” Lady Blanche Clayton inclined her head. “Good evening. I trust you had a pleasant journey?” She stood a few steps from me, and our gaze met evenly. She did not offer me a seat. I smiled and nodded, observing the cordial expression on her face, yet her eyes were cold and grey as stone.

“Thank you, my lady. I did indeed.” I willed my voice not to betray the depth of my discomfort. “I apologize for the lateness of the hour. The early train was canceled.”

She waved a gloved hand. “’Tis of no consequence. Our housekeeper, Tricklebank, has your room prepared and will bring you a light repast.” Lady Clayton turned away and went to a small ivory table. She grasped a small bell and rang it sharply. I watched her every move. The profile of her aristocratic face, the silver threads of her elegantly coiffed hair. Immediately the drawing room doors opened, and the elderly butler entered.

“Your Ladyship?”

“Baxter, show Miss Westcott to her room.” She inclined her head toward me and gave a thin smile. “We will speak again in the morning at ten o’clock. We can go over your duties then.”

Dismissed, I turned away and followed the butler from the room, elated that the first part of my plan had succeeded. Lady Blanche Clayton had absolutely no idea who I really was.

I AWOKE WITH THE strange sensation I might still be dreaming. I lay cocooned within a large canopied bed, my body swaddled in linen sheets and warm wool blankets, my head cradled like a baby on soft feather pillows. I smiled with guilty pleasure, and then sat bolt upright as my mind cleared. Was I really at Mowbray Manor? Drowsy layers of slumber fell away as my thoughts arranged themselves in proper order. I glanced about the chamber. The morning light shone through chinks in the curtains, which offered clarity previously denied by lamplight last night.

The room was indeed pleasant. Sumptuous pink cabbage roses papered the walls, a busy backdrop to the multitude of small, framed paintings which depicted all manner of pretty birds. The mantel over a white fireplace was festooned with swarms of tiny china ornaments. At one side of the hearth stood a large wardrobe, painted white with gold trim embossing its doors, and on the other side, a writing desk situated beneath a generous window.

Curious to see what lay outside, I rose to pull back