you gave me such a fright!” the maid exclaimed as water splashed over the sides of the pitcher onto her hands. She held the jug against her chest and mopped at the dripping sides with her apron while eyeing the bed behind Pru. “Why you never laid your head on your pillow, neither.”
“No. I rested a few hours in my chair, but I felt restless.”
“It’s them spirits, ain’t it, Miss?” The avid gleam in her pale blue eyes scraped Pru’s already-raw nerves. “I daresay it’s hard to rest in a house all a-knowing the restless spirit of a poor, dead man were searching for his murderer.”
“Yes.” Pru nodded tiredly. “Would you send for my abigail, please?”
There was no point in arguing that it was not her conscience, or even the angry spirit of Lord Crowley, that prevented her from sleeping. It was the concern that today might be her last day of freedom. For some unknown reason, Mr. Gaunt had given her a brief reprieve, but she couldn’t count on him providing her with another.
She was not foolish enough to believe he thought she was innocent, not with his fascination with the one, grand truth. Toward dawn, she realized he must have thought he could trap her into admitting she had murdered Lord Crowley during their conversation. At least she had avoided that pitfall, but for how much longer? Men who subscribed to such black-and-white philosophies often interpreted events to fit their beliefs.
She sighed, ill-prepared to face the difficulties the day would surely bring. She poured icy water into the wash bowl and reluctantly picked up a ball of the harsh, inexpensive soap her abigail normally used for their laundry. It lathered poorly, but they had run out of funds early this month, and Pru hesitated to ask the dowager for soap, of all things. As she rinsed her face, the skin felt as taut and dry as her mind.
After carefully patting her face dry, Pru sat in front of a small oak dresser and fiddled with her hair pins, wishing she felt more confident about her abilities to defend herself. Finally, Millie, her abigail, arrived to brush and style Pru’s long black hair into a simple twist set high on her head with a few long curls framing her face. The elegant style did nothing to shore up her confidence.
“Which dress, Miss?” Millie moved toward the wardrobe.
“The silk.”
When she donned the heavy, black gown, her fair skin appeared even paler in contrast. Uncaring, she stared in numb exhaustion at her reflection. Her dark gray eyes looked completely black, ringed by dark shadows.
One would have thought she was a grief-stricken widow instead of a houseguest. Or did she look more like a guilt-stricken murderess? More importantly, how would Mr. Gaunt perceive her?
“Do you know if Lady Crowley has risen yet?” she asked her maid.
Millie shook her head. “I’ve heard naught about her from them maids. They’re all gossiping—”
“No doubt,” Pru replied dryly. “Unfortunately, Lord Crowley’s death was a dreadful shock, so it’s hardly surprising they’re discussing it.”
“Yes, but you should a-heard what they was saying below stairs—”
“Please, I can guess. I don’t particularly want to hear it repeated.”
Millie glared at her, a hurt look in her brown eyes. “I’m sure I don’t mean nothing by it.” She sniffed. “Just thought you ought to know.”
Feeling ashamed, Pru lightly touched one of Millie’s rough, red hands. “I appreciate your concern. But as long as we both know I’m innocent, that’s all that matters. You know how people will gossip whether their words are true or not.”
“I certainly do,” Millie replied darkly, rearranging the brushes and combs on Pru’s dresser.
“Don’t worry, Millie. Whatever happens, I’ll provide for you. I promise.”
“For all the good it’ll do me,” her abigail mumbled, a frown creasing her forehead. “I’ll be left with no place, just you wait and see.”
Not in the mood to argue, Pru opened the door.
“No. I rested a few hours in my chair, but I felt restless.”
“It’s them spirits, ain’t it, Miss?” The avid gleam in her pale blue eyes scraped Pru’s already-raw nerves. “I daresay it’s hard to rest in a house all a-knowing the restless spirit of a poor, dead man were searching for his murderer.”
“Yes.” Pru nodded tiredly. “Would you send for my abigail, please?”
There was no point in arguing that it was not her conscience, or even the angry spirit of Lord Crowley, that prevented her from sleeping. It was the concern that today might be her last day of freedom. For some unknown reason, Mr. Gaunt had given her a brief reprieve, but she couldn’t count on him providing her with another.
She was not foolish enough to believe he thought she was innocent, not with his fascination with the one, grand truth. Toward dawn, she realized he must have thought he could trap her into admitting she had murdered Lord Crowley during their conversation. At least she had avoided that pitfall, but for how much longer? Men who subscribed to such black-and-white philosophies often interpreted events to fit their beliefs.
She sighed, ill-prepared to face the difficulties the day would surely bring. She poured icy water into the wash bowl and reluctantly picked up a ball of the harsh, inexpensive soap her abigail normally used for their laundry. It lathered poorly, but they had run out of funds early this month, and Pru hesitated to ask the dowager for soap, of all things. As she rinsed her face, the skin felt as taut and dry as her mind.
After carefully patting her face dry, Pru sat in front of a small oak dresser and fiddled with her hair pins, wishing she felt more confident about her abilities to defend herself. Finally, Millie, her abigail, arrived to brush and style Pru’s long black hair into a simple twist set high on her head with a few long curls framing her face. The elegant style did nothing to shore up her confidence.
“Which dress, Miss?” Millie moved toward the wardrobe.
“The silk.”
When she donned the heavy, black gown, her fair skin appeared even paler in contrast. Uncaring, she stared in numb exhaustion at her reflection. Her dark gray eyes looked completely black, ringed by dark shadows.
One would have thought she was a grief-stricken widow instead of a houseguest. Or did she look more like a guilt-stricken murderess? More importantly, how would Mr. Gaunt perceive her?
“Do you know if Lady Crowley has risen yet?” she asked her maid.
Millie shook her head. “I’ve heard naught about her from them maids. They’re all gossiping—”
“No doubt,” Pru replied dryly. “Unfortunately, Lord Crowley’s death was a dreadful shock, so it’s hardly surprising they’re discussing it.”
“Yes, but you should a-heard what they was saying below stairs—”
“Please, I can guess. I don’t particularly want to hear it repeated.”
Millie glared at her, a hurt look in her brown eyes. “I’m sure I don’t mean nothing by it.” She sniffed. “Just thought you ought to know.”
Feeling ashamed, Pru lightly touched one of Millie’s rough, red hands. “I appreciate your concern. But as long as we both know I’m innocent, that’s all that matters. You know how people will gossip whether their words are true or not.”
“I certainly do,” Millie replied darkly, rearranging the brushes and combs on Pru’s dresser.
“Don’t worry, Millie. Whatever happens, I’ll provide for you. I promise.”
“For all the good it’ll do me,” her abigail mumbled, a frown creasing her forehead. “I’ll be left with no place, just you wait and see.”
Not in the mood to argue, Pru opened the door.
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