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Authors: Lawana Blackwell
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the lump in the pit of her chest?
She decided the ordeal with Tucker and its aftermath had drained more energy from her than she had supposed. Some hot chocolate would revive her spirits. And the bedtime kiss would only disturb Georgiana if she happened to be asleep there against her nanny’s shoulder.
Down a flight into the morning room she went. It had been Sidney’s favorite refuge in the house, and now it was her favorite as well, since she had replaced the stuffy, heavy old furniture with the floral motifs, flowing swirls, and sensuous curves of Art Nouveau. Grandmother Pearce’s collection of blue-and-white dishes was arranged on the wall over the mantelpiece, and the childhood dolls, which had survived Muriel’s brothers, stared with glassy eyes from a tall mahogany case. Propped upon an easel in a corner was a canvas in oils, partially complete, of a bowl of fruit. The fruit that had served as her model had long ago grown soft and been discarded when Muriel’s interest transferred from painting to gardening. But she had vowed to finish one day, hence she would not allow the servants to put the easel away.
The only older piece of furniture Muriel kept in the room was Sidney’s comfortable single-ended mahogany-framed sofa, but only after having the tobacco-smelling red brocade upholstery and padding removed and replaced with China-blue velvet. After ringing for hot chocolate, she settled herself at the end of that sofa with stocking feet tucked up beneath her skirt and opened Bram Stoker’s Dracula to where a ribbon bookmark rested in chapter four. Presently a draft of air from the corridor accompanied Joyce into the room. The parlourmaid placed the silver tray bearing cup and saucer and linen napkin on a tea table pushed close to Muriel.
“Will there be anything else, m’Lady?” Joyce asked after stoking the fire. She had coiled auburn hair, and seemedshorter than her medium height because of shoulders rounded from years of scrubbing floors.
Muriel took a sip from the cup and returned it to the saucer with a click. “Nothing more.”
By the time Joyce returned to add a shuttle of coal to the fire and take the tray, the storm had ceased and only inky blackness was visible past the windowpanes. “Shall I close the curtains, m’Lady?”
“Yes,” Muriel replied with eyes still on the page. She was halfway through another sentence when the soft squeak of hinges and another draft of chill air gave her second thought. She looked over her shoulder at Joyce, halfway through the doorway. “Leave the door open.”
That meant the fire would not warm as efficiently, but Muriel was comfortable for the present, and a knitted afghan was folded within arm’s reach. The Gothic horrors she enjoyed, such as Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Wells’s The Island of Dr. Moreau usually gave her no more than a delicious mild scare, which she could put into perspective by reminding herself that the stories were made up. But Dracula was a little too intense to be reading alone, even though she could no more bear to save it for a less gloomy morning than fly.
For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary’s Church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into view. . . .
“Muriel, I—”
“Ahgh!” She jumped at the touch on her shoulder. The book flew from her lap to the carpet with a thump. By that time, Muriel’s mind had registered to whom the voice belonged.
“Douglas!” she exclaimed, twisting over the sofa back to slap his arm.
“Sorry,” he said, but grinning like an eight-year-old who had just pulled a chair from beneath a schoolmate.
Before she could slap him again, his smile dipped into a trembling frown, and his eyes filled. Muriel stared at him for a second then groaned. “For mercy’s sake, Douglas . . . not her again.”
Her brother went around the sofa, dropped onto the
She decided the ordeal with Tucker and its aftermath had drained more energy from her than she had supposed. Some hot chocolate would revive her spirits. And the bedtime kiss would only disturb Georgiana if she happened to be asleep there against her nanny’s shoulder.
Down a flight into the morning room she went. It had been Sidney’s favorite refuge in the house, and now it was her favorite as well, since she had replaced the stuffy, heavy old furniture with the floral motifs, flowing swirls, and sensuous curves of Art Nouveau. Grandmother Pearce’s collection of blue-and-white dishes was arranged on the wall over the mantelpiece, and the childhood dolls, which had survived Muriel’s brothers, stared with glassy eyes from a tall mahogany case. Propped upon an easel in a corner was a canvas in oils, partially complete, of a bowl of fruit. The fruit that had served as her model had long ago grown soft and been discarded when Muriel’s interest transferred from painting to gardening. But she had vowed to finish one day, hence she would not allow the servants to put the easel away.
The only older piece of furniture Muriel kept in the room was Sidney’s comfortable single-ended mahogany-framed sofa, but only after having the tobacco-smelling red brocade upholstery and padding removed and replaced with China-blue velvet. After ringing for hot chocolate, she settled herself at the end of that sofa with stocking feet tucked up beneath her skirt and opened Bram Stoker’s Dracula to where a ribbon bookmark rested in chapter four. Presently a draft of air from the corridor accompanied Joyce into the room. The parlourmaid placed the silver tray bearing cup and saucer and linen napkin on a tea table pushed close to Muriel.
“Will there be anything else, m’Lady?” Joyce asked after stoking the fire. She had coiled auburn hair, and seemedshorter than her medium height because of shoulders rounded from years of scrubbing floors.
Muriel took a sip from the cup and returned it to the saucer with a click. “Nothing more.”
By the time Joyce returned to add a shuttle of coal to the fire and take the tray, the storm had ceased and only inky blackness was visible past the windowpanes. “Shall I close the curtains, m’Lady?”
“Yes,” Muriel replied with eyes still on the page. She was halfway through another sentence when the soft squeak of hinges and another draft of chill air gave her second thought. She looked over her shoulder at Joyce, halfway through the doorway. “Leave the door open.”
That meant the fire would not warm as efficiently, but Muriel was comfortable for the present, and a knitted afghan was folded within arm’s reach. The Gothic horrors she enjoyed, such as Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Wells’s The Island of Dr. Moreau usually gave her no more than a delicious mild scare, which she could put into perspective by reminding herself that the stories were made up. But Dracula was a little too intense to be reading alone, even though she could no more bear to save it for a less gloomy morning than fly.
For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary’s Church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into view. . . .
“Muriel, I—”
“Ahgh!” She jumped at the touch on her shoulder. The book flew from her lap to the carpet with a thump. By that time, Muriel’s mind had registered to whom the voice belonged.
“Douglas!” she exclaimed, twisting over the sofa back to slap his arm.
“Sorry,” he said, but grinning like an eight-year-old who had just pulled a chair from beneath a schoolmate.
Before she could slap him again, his smile dipped into a trembling frown, and his eyes filled. Muriel stared at him for a second then groaned. “For mercy’s sake, Douglas . . . not her again.”
Her brother went around the sofa, dropped onto the
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