Read Online Secrets of Midnight by Miriam Minger - Free Book Online
Authors: Miriam Minger
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place,
Donovan's country house a veritable palace despite its unkempt condition. She
could just imagine the grandeur of his brother the duke's home, the magnificent
house and gardens kept up with profits gained by shortchanging the tinners.
Fuming about the injustice of it all, she headed down the hall leading to her
father's study. To her surprise, the door was ajar, which was odd considering
her father rarely emerged on Saturdays until his sermon was written, usually
well after supper.
"I . . . I thought
he'd be here," she said more to herself than Donovan as she walked into
the room. It was then she noticed the candle guttering on the desk, not so odd
a thing of itself, but in her father's study, a sight unseen in many years.
One of the small windows
was opened slightly, a thin shaft of sunlight falling upon her father's spread
papers, the blue shutter outside ajar as well. A shutter that had remained
locked since her mother's death, as if her father, by keeping his study closed
up, could somehow share with his wife the darkness of the tomb.
"Might your father
be at the church?"
She started, whirling,
having practically forgotten about Donovan. He dwarfed this room, too, standing
so tall and broad-shouldered, his shadow gigantic upon the wall.
"Maybe . . . I don't
know."
"Well, I hear
someone humming in the kitchen. Your mother?"
His question, although
innocent, made her stiffen. "My mother died eight years ago."
"I'm sorry. I
suppose I should have guessed since you never mentioned her—"
"That's Frances
humming, our housekeeper." Unsettled by the husky sincerity in his voice,
Corisande knew she'd cut him off rudely, but she didn't want to discuss such
private matters with this man. And she'd already told him so, too!
Instead, she turned back to the window, meaning to shut
it against the breeze to keep candle wax from spattering the desk. But a
movement outside caught her eye, her father suddenly appearing at the edge of
the garden that bordered the heath. He looked strangely distressed, pressing
his hand to his chest as he leaned upon a budding apple tree.
Chapter 7
"Papa? Papa, are you all right?"
Her heart thundering, Corisande didn't wait for an
answer but fled past Donovan and down the hall into the kitchen.
"Corie? Oh, my, 'ee startled me!" Frances
precariously juggled a plate of freshly baked leek tarts in one hand and a
pitcher of goat's milk in the other as Corisande swept past her and lunged for
the back door. "What is it? A fire?"
"It's Papa, Frances! I think something's wrong."
Corisande heard a crash of crockery, but she didn't
turn around even when Frances wailed, "Lord help us, not the good passon!
An' dark strangers in the house, too! Who are 'ee to be followers after Corie,
eh? Eh?"
Corisande didn't have to hear Frances's indignant
shouts to know that Donovan was not far behind her. She could sense him hard on
her heels, which struck her as odd. What did he care for Joseph Easton's
welfare? But her thoughts jumped to the crisis at hand as she raced through the
garden, only to discover her father wasn't standing where she'd last seen him.
Instead, he was pruning a hedge of purple veronica, already in full flower,
nearer to the house. Pruning!
"Papa, didn't you hear me calling? Are you all
right?"
He looked up, his hair brilliant white in the sunlight,
his hazel eyes confused. "What? You were calling me?"
"Of course I was, Papa! From the window in your
study. It was open, the shutter too."
He made no response, as if he hadn't heard her, taking
another swipe at the rich green foliage with the pruning shears. Yet Corisande
could plainly see that his face was flushed and sweaty, as if he'd recently
exerted himself. She shaded her eyes and looked out over the vast heath
scattered with gnarled trees bent and twisted from the wind, wondering if he
might have simply gone walking and perhaps taken himself too far. He seemed all
right now, though more distracted than usual . .
Donovan's country house a veritable palace despite its unkempt condition. She
could just imagine the grandeur of his brother the duke's home, the magnificent
house and gardens kept up with profits gained by shortchanging the tinners.
Fuming about the injustice of it all, she headed down the hall leading to her
father's study. To her surprise, the door was ajar, which was odd considering
her father rarely emerged on Saturdays until his sermon was written, usually
well after supper.
"I . . . I thought
he'd be here," she said more to herself than Donovan as she walked into
the room. It was then she noticed the candle guttering on the desk, not so odd
a thing of itself, but in her father's study, a sight unseen in many years.
One of the small windows
was opened slightly, a thin shaft of sunlight falling upon her father's spread
papers, the blue shutter outside ajar as well. A shutter that had remained
locked since her mother's death, as if her father, by keeping his study closed
up, could somehow share with his wife the darkness of the tomb.
"Might your father
be at the church?"
She started, whirling,
having practically forgotten about Donovan. He dwarfed this room, too, standing
so tall and broad-shouldered, his shadow gigantic upon the wall.
"Maybe . . . I don't
know."
"Well, I hear
someone humming in the kitchen. Your mother?"
His question, although
innocent, made her stiffen. "My mother died eight years ago."
"I'm sorry. I
suppose I should have guessed since you never mentioned her—"
"That's Frances
humming, our housekeeper." Unsettled by the husky sincerity in his voice,
Corisande knew she'd cut him off rudely, but she didn't want to discuss such
private matters with this man. And she'd already told him so, too!
Instead, she turned back to the window, meaning to shut
it against the breeze to keep candle wax from spattering the desk. But a
movement outside caught her eye, her father suddenly appearing at the edge of
the garden that bordered the heath. He looked strangely distressed, pressing
his hand to his chest as he leaned upon a budding apple tree.
Chapter 7
"Papa? Papa, are you all right?"
Her heart thundering, Corisande didn't wait for an
answer but fled past Donovan and down the hall into the kitchen.
"Corie? Oh, my, 'ee startled me!" Frances
precariously juggled a plate of freshly baked leek tarts in one hand and a
pitcher of goat's milk in the other as Corisande swept past her and lunged for
the back door. "What is it? A fire?"
"It's Papa, Frances! I think something's wrong."
Corisande heard a crash of crockery, but she didn't
turn around even when Frances wailed, "Lord help us, not the good passon!
An' dark strangers in the house, too! Who are 'ee to be followers after Corie,
eh? Eh?"
Corisande didn't have to hear Frances's indignant
shouts to know that Donovan was not far behind her. She could sense him hard on
her heels, which struck her as odd. What did he care for Joseph Easton's
welfare? But her thoughts jumped to the crisis at hand as she raced through the
garden, only to discover her father wasn't standing where she'd last seen him.
Instead, he was pruning a hedge of purple veronica, already in full flower,
nearer to the house. Pruning!
"Papa, didn't you hear me calling? Are you all
right?"
He looked up, his hair brilliant white in the sunlight,
his hazel eyes confused. "What? You were calling me?"
"Of course I was, Papa! From the window in your
study. It was open, the shutter too."
He made no response, as if he hadn't heard her, taking
another swipe at the rich green foliage with the pruning shears. Yet Corisande
could plainly see that his face was flushed and sweaty, as if he'd recently
exerted himself. She shaded her eyes and looked out over the vast heath
scattered with gnarled trees bent and twisted from the wind, wondering if he
might have simply gone walking and perhaps taken himself too far. He seemed all
right now, though more distracted than usual . .
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