Read Online The Dark Unwinding by Sharon Cameron - Free Book Online Page B

Miss Tulman. And … do be careful.”
    I gave him a small curtsy in return, wondering who he was warning me against: Lane, or my uncle.
     
    My perusal of the desk with the jumble of papers proved unrevealing. The peacock drawing — which looked complete to my untrained eye — had been replaced, and the bits of broken glass swept away, but there were no books, no records, nothing to indicate how much of Fat Robert’s inheritance was being spent, or how much of it might be left. But someone had to pay the men, order the coal, buy the base metal, and likely a dozen other things that had never occurred to me. And I doubted very much that it was my uncle.
    I stepped out of the workshop. There were voices in the engine room, male voices, and I heard the scrape of a shovel on a brick floor. I had dallied too long. I tiptoed down the hallway, pushed soundlessly on the sitting-room door, and peeked inside.
    Early shadows had collected like cobwebs in the corners, and on the little couch where I had rested yesterday lay my uncle, a blanket pulled up to his chin, breathing deep and slow in his sleep. Lane was stretched long on a blanket on the floor, his arms behind his head, conveying the readiness to spring even while in the depths of slumber. Beside the couch, on top of a cabinet, sat my bonnet.
    My fingertips had just touched the brim when a voice said, “What are you doing, Miss Tulman?”
    I started, my hand jerking back of its own accord. Then I snatched up my hat and turned around. Lane was on his bare feet, hair tousled and chin shadowed, his voice rough with sleep. “I am getting my bonnet, Mr. Moreau.”
    “You didn’t come down here for your hat.”
    The gray eyes bored back into mine, but this time they were not like stone. They were wild, unpredictable, like a storming sea. I opened my mouth to protest, and found I had nothing to say.
    “Why didn’t you leave?” he demanded.
    My gaze darted to my uncle. Lane was not shouting, but he was not whispering either. He crossed his arms.
    “He’ll not wake,” Lane said, “not after he’s been upset. Why did you send away the wagon?”
    “I’m not obligated to tell you anything of —”
    “Yes. You are.”
    I clutched the hat to my chest. My uncle had moved slightly, a corner of his tucked blanket now hanging loose to the floor. “I have only come for my bonnet,” I whispered. I turned away and hurried for the green door.
    “It doesn’t match your dress!” I heard him call, the latch clicking shut on his words. I stood on the doorstep, blinking in the dawning sun, resentment rising slow and hot into my face. None of this was my doing, the result not my responsibility; I had settled that firmly with myself on Marianna’s mattress. Lane Moreau had no right to show me such open contempt; as Mr. Tulman’s niece, I was due his courtesy, at the very least. In London such insolence would have had him packing his bags. I lifted my chin, pushed down the latch, and marched back through the door.
    Lane wasn’t there. The room was silent but for the breathing of my uncle. I crossed the room slowly and looked down on him. He wasn’t just beneath the blanket, I saw, but cocooned in it, the tight cloth only just moving against his intake of breath, the dangling corner carefully tucked back in. The white hair was wild, and yet his face was peaceful, trusting, like a swaddled child.
     
    I smelled cooking from the garden, and when I entered the kitchen, Mrs. Jefferies, wearing a starched apron and with her hair combed and pinned, looked up from a sizzling pan. Her brows rose, at Mary Brown’s dirty skirt, I supposed, but she kept her remarks to herself. The table was set for four and had a cloth upon it.
    “Are you expecting company, Mrs. Jefferies?”
    “I thought we’d sit and have a proper breakfast, is all. Unless you’d rather not, of course.” Something like hope momentarily crossed her face. “Lane will be along soon.”
    I remained silent. A meal with the