Read Online Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark by Donna Lea Simpson - Free Book Online
Authors: Donna Lea Simpson
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“I h-hadn’t thought of that. No, she didn’t confide in me.”
“Is that the truth?”
She turned her face away and mumbled, “Of course.”
“Are you sure?”
“Anne, please!”
From long acquaintance, recognizing that her friend would say nothing more, Anne let it go and stood, patting Lydia’s soft hands fisted around handfuls of snowy bedcover. “You look a little peaked. Rest some more, my dear. I have much to find out.”
“Please,” she whispered brokenly, meeting her friend’s steady gaze, “find out what killed poor Cecilia!”
“That’s not what I’m here for, Lydia. You asked me to uncover the truth behind the werewolf story.”
One lone tear trembled on Lydia’s lush lashes then dropped onto her cheek and ran down, dripping off her chin. “I’m so frightened. Please, Anne, you’re so brave and clever. Try. Perhaps it was the werewolf. It must be the werewolf. You can track it down.”
Anne sighed. “I’m neither a magistrate nor a hunter.”
“Just try!”
Anne descended, considering Lydia’s sudden certainty that the “werewolf” killed Cecilia. Were the werewolf sightings and the murder tied together? It was possible. She set out to find Mrs. Hailey to apprise her of the imminent arrival of her maid, Mary Agnes MacDougall, and her tiger, Wee Robbie. They traveled north in her carriage driven by Sanderson, Anne’s coachman. Though Anne didn’t wish to put the household out by having to find room for them all, having her own carriage and driver there would offer her the best chance at quickly leaving, should she become weary of the place or if her presence was no longer needed. Having experienced the rude rapidity of the Royal Mail Coach, she was relieved she wouldn’t need to travel that way again and could go at a more civilized pace on her return.
Following the delicious smells of roasting goose and venison haunch down narrowing passages toward the utilitarian back offices and kitchen, to the dismay of startled staff, who scurried out of her path, Anne peeked into various chambers: the buttery, the wet larder, and the dry provision room. She passed the butler’s room, though since Ivy Lodge seemed to make do without a butler, it was more properly the head footman’s room, where he would polish silver and decant the wine. Anne knew that she should have sent a message to the housekeeper by that footman, Andrew, saying she wished to speak with the housekeeper, but impatience was her second-worst failing, after curiosity. And she had ulterior motives in making this foray into the nether regions of Ivy Lodge.
Anne spied a small room off the dark hallway, away from the food and washing area. She peeked in; it was the housekeeper’s office. “Ah, Mrs. Hailey,” she said.
The woman looked up from a book on a pedestal, with a startled expression in her prominent eyes. “Milady!” she gasped, slipping down off her stool and curtseying.
“I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,” Anne said, summoning up what charm she could and occasionally did use to soothe injured pride or hurt feelings. “I’m sure you’re dreadfully busy, especially with the awful events of last night. I didn’t wish to have you summoned all the way up to my room just to give you a bit of information you will find necessary for my stay.” Anne entered the room as she spoke, though she really should have waited for an invitation.
The woman would be within her rights to ask her to leave and to complain about the intrusion to Lady Darkefell, but Anne didn’t think Mrs. Hailey would. There was curiosity and intelligence in the depths of the woman’s pale eyes, but she merely said, “What information would that be, milady?”
“I’m expecting my maid, Mary MacDougall, to arrive tomorrow and have imposed terribly upon this household by having her bring along my tiger, Robbie. Mary is a widow, and Robbie is her son. My coachman, Sanderson, will be driving them, and I’d like him to
“Is that the truth?”
She turned her face away and mumbled, “Of course.”
“Are you sure?”
“Anne, please!”
From long acquaintance, recognizing that her friend would say nothing more, Anne let it go and stood, patting Lydia’s soft hands fisted around handfuls of snowy bedcover. “You look a little peaked. Rest some more, my dear. I have much to find out.”
“Please,” she whispered brokenly, meeting her friend’s steady gaze, “find out what killed poor Cecilia!”
“That’s not what I’m here for, Lydia. You asked me to uncover the truth behind the werewolf story.”
One lone tear trembled on Lydia’s lush lashes then dropped onto her cheek and ran down, dripping off her chin. “I’m so frightened. Please, Anne, you’re so brave and clever. Try. Perhaps it was the werewolf. It must be the werewolf. You can track it down.”
Anne sighed. “I’m neither a magistrate nor a hunter.”
“Just try!”
Anne descended, considering Lydia’s sudden certainty that the “werewolf” killed Cecilia. Were the werewolf sightings and the murder tied together? It was possible. She set out to find Mrs. Hailey to apprise her of the imminent arrival of her maid, Mary Agnes MacDougall, and her tiger, Wee Robbie. They traveled north in her carriage driven by Sanderson, Anne’s coachman. Though Anne didn’t wish to put the household out by having to find room for them all, having her own carriage and driver there would offer her the best chance at quickly leaving, should she become weary of the place or if her presence was no longer needed. Having experienced the rude rapidity of the Royal Mail Coach, she was relieved she wouldn’t need to travel that way again and could go at a more civilized pace on her return.
Following the delicious smells of roasting goose and venison haunch down narrowing passages toward the utilitarian back offices and kitchen, to the dismay of startled staff, who scurried out of her path, Anne peeked into various chambers: the buttery, the wet larder, and the dry provision room. She passed the butler’s room, though since Ivy Lodge seemed to make do without a butler, it was more properly the head footman’s room, where he would polish silver and decant the wine. Anne knew that she should have sent a message to the housekeeper by that footman, Andrew, saying she wished to speak with the housekeeper, but impatience was her second-worst failing, after curiosity. And she had ulterior motives in making this foray into the nether regions of Ivy Lodge.
Anne spied a small room off the dark hallway, away from the food and washing area. She peeked in; it was the housekeeper’s office. “Ah, Mrs. Hailey,” she said.
The woman looked up from a book on a pedestal, with a startled expression in her prominent eyes. “Milady!” she gasped, slipping down off her stool and curtseying.
“I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,” Anne said, summoning up what charm she could and occasionally did use to soothe injured pride or hurt feelings. “I’m sure you’re dreadfully busy, especially with the awful events of last night. I didn’t wish to have you summoned all the way up to my room just to give you a bit of information you will find necessary for my stay.” Anne entered the room as she spoke, though she really should have waited for an invitation.
The woman would be within her rights to ask her to leave and to complain about the intrusion to Lady Darkefell, but Anne didn’t think Mrs. Hailey would. There was curiosity and intelligence in the depths of the woman’s pale eyes, but she merely said, “What information would that be, milady?”
“I’m expecting my maid, Mary MacDougall, to arrive tomorrow and have imposed terribly upon this household by having her bring along my tiger, Robbie. Mary is a widow, and Robbie is her son. My coachman, Sanderson, will be driving them, and I’d like him to
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