Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 28

October 13, 1846, Boston, Massachusetts and Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

One of the hardest things Hulda had ever done was to sew up the guise of self-sufficient old maid and keep a straight face through her conversation with Merritt. Ignoring his obsession with that poster on the front of Quincy Market. Walking briskly to the docks, passing stranger after stranger. Acting as if her insides hadn’t been scooped out. And she did a bloody good job of it, too.

Until she got to the boat.

Once she activated the kinetic spell and propelled the boat into the bay, once she got far enough from the voices and city lights, her guise shattered completely.

Idiot, idiot, idiot. She held back the tears as best she could but still had to remove her glasses to wipe her eyes. How. Had. She. Not. Learned? How many times did this have to happen before she learned?

She fumbled through her bag for a handkerchief, then hurriedly steered the boat where it needed to go, guided by the lighthouses on nearby islands. She’d thought—she had actually, stupidly thought—that he cared for her. That he wanted her around for his own gratification. That he even returned her feelings . . . ha! And had she really been fool enough to think he’d asked for a private word because he meant to confess something of the sort to her? Pah! Likely he’d wanted the menu changed, or he’d changed his mind about the steward, or he’d decided to take a more active role in the running of his property. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Strife and truth. She’d foreseen this, hadn’t she? But the premonition was more closely tied to her fate than she’d imagined. And the truth is that you’re nothing to him.

Her chest felt like it was cracking in two, like old, dry scabs were pulling apart fiber by fiber.

Because she had watched him drop everything to pursue another woman. An old love. A person he had intended to marry once. An accomplished musician, no less.

An intolerable sob worked its way up her throat. She was overreacting. She repeated that over and over, scolding herself like a grizzled headmaster would. It did nothing to quell her tears, which only frustrated her more.

She made it to Blaugdone Island with zero fanfare. Tried to pull on her mask again, but now that the proverbial dam had broken, it didn’t fit anymore. Like she was trying to shove a lamb shank into a sausage casing. At least the air was cold. That would help with the swelling and give her an excuse for the redness.

Tromping across the plashy ground, she paused once at a stirring sound, but it was only a grouse. She let herself into the house, purposefully ignoring the portrait on the wall. She could hear Mr. Babineaux moving about the kitchen. Rushing up the stairs, she darted for her room before Miss Taylor could witness her humiliation.

The closed door at her back was a comfort. She tossed her spectacles onto the bed and lit a candle. Crossed the room and opened the window as wide as it would go, beckoning in a hiemal breeze. She still had water in her pitcher, so she poured it into a bowl and splashed her face. Loose tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead.

Sidestepping to her mirror, she leaned in to better see herself. A chuckle rough as rusted nails tore up her throat.

She was a histrionic mess. Her crying had made her eyes even smaller. Her jaw was too wide to be feminine—she’d seen those sharp lines work on other women, but not on herself. And her nose . . . her nose was the sort of thing authors put on storybook villains. Authors like Merritt Fernsby.

She stared at herself as new tears brimmed her eyelashes. No, her portrait would never rest in a frame on a lover’s bedside table or be pressed into a wallet or pocket watch. Her body would never know the touch of a man or the weight of a child. She was an augurist, after all. Her talent lay in knowing the future.

The most hateful thing of all was that she knew this, and she had accepted it years ago. She had made her peace, truly. She had been content with her achievements, her career, and her colleagues before coming to this blasted house.

She turned away, blinking rapidly, pulling her hairpins free with little grace. A tear fell to the floor. She ignored it. Tore a button from her dress, trying to free herself of it, and cursed. Cursed again. Spat out every foul word she knew, just because she could. It made her feel a little better. A little.

She chucked her corset across the room, nearly sending it out the window, but gravity pitied her and tugged it to the floor. She was a little more careful with her nightdress. She didn’t need two articles of clothing to repair, especially since she’d be leaving imminently.

She paused at the thought. Sunk into her mattress. Mouthed the words. Yes, she had to leave. For her own sanity and wellbeing, she could not remain in this house. Her rejection was raw and fresh and would certainly not heal with Merritt Fernsby walking the same halls, sharing the same jokes, wondering why she was such a mess. And heaven help her, if he brought this Ebba Mullan home to be lady of the house . . .

Hulda pressed her palms to her eyes as humiliation washed over her, rancid and prickly. Fool. You always have been.

Myra had known about her preposterous attraction. Somehow, she had known. That’s why she’d worked so hard to pull her from Whimbrel House. Or perhaps it had all been an act of God, to spare her this internal beating. And yet, it would seem she’d needed to learn the painful lesson again, so next time she would be stalwart in her resolutions. So her heart would stay in the cold, steel cage where it belonged.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as a new ache pushed up from her navel and spread through her chest. “Why couldn’t this have happened two weeks ago?” she whispered.

Then, she could have written Mr. Fernsby off as an infatuation. But she’d gone and fallen in love with him, his clever words, his gentle hands, his uplifting laugh. Curse Miss Mullan for having her name on that damnable poster!

Slouching, she cradled her head. It was her fault, she knew. No one had asked her to form an attachment. But it felt better, for a moment, to pin the blame on others. Anger was an easier pill to swallow than this sopping remorse.

A light rapping sounded at her door. Hulda forced a swallow, then fanned her face with her hands. Said nothing; hopefully Miss Taylor would assume she’d retired for the evening and leave her alone.

Another soft tap. “Mrs. Larkin? Do you want to talk about it?”

She managed to keep the next curse within her throat. Had she been so conspicuous?

The door cracked. “Mrs. Larkin?”

Hulda released a shuddering breath. “I suppose if I haven’t h-hid it well enough, th-there’s no point in turning you away, is there?”

Miss Taylor slipped into the room, closing the door soundlessly behind her. She held her own candle and set it on the bedside table. Concern pulled at her expression as she sat beside Hulda and touched her sleeve. “Whatever is the matter?”

Hulda smiled. She didn’t know why. Relocated her damp handkerchief and dotted her sore eyes. “It’s n-nothing, really. I’m leaving, is all. Tomorrow, I think. No, the day after . . . it will take me a m-moment to get everything in order with BIKER”—another swallow—“and get my things packed. But it’s for the best.”

Miss Taylor frowned. “Ms. Haigh is pulling you? Why?”

Hulda twisted the handkerchief in her hands. A sore lump was building in her throat.

Hesitant, Miss Taylor said, “Is it . . . Mr. Fernsby?”

A most unpleasant shock shot up her spine. “What makes you say that?”

“He didn’t come home with you.” She put a hand on her knee. “And he must be the reason you don’t want to leave.”

Hulda shook her head. “Nonsense.”

“I know I’m overstepping,” she went on, “but I see the way you two are around each other.”

New embarrassment made Hulda too warm in her skin. “How I behave around him, I suppose.” She felt even more imbecilic than before, hearing she’d been so obvious.

“Nah, the both of you.” She offered a smile. “He cares about you, Mrs. Larkin.”

Hulda pinched her lips together, but could not stop another wave of tears. She buried her face in her handkerchief and chewed on a sob so it would come out in dainty spurts instead of one ugly heaving. Miss Taylor rubbed her back, patiently waiting for her to find an ounce of control.

“Th-Then we’re both fools,” she whispered. “Mr. F-Fernsby has not returned b-because he’s seeking out his ex-fiancée, Miss Mullan. H-He is pursuing h-her.”

Miss Taylor’s hand stilled. “Oh.”

Hulda lowered her handkerchief and sniffed. Several tense seconds sat in the room like bricks.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Taylor whispered. There was nothing else she could say.

Hulda nodded. “So am I, my dear. So am I.”

It was dark again when Merritt reached Manchester City Hall, where the concert was to be held. He pulled his frock coat closer around him, wishing he’d brought gloves, but there was nothing to be done about that now. His nerves felt exposed to the outdoors. Every clop of a horse hoof or peal of laughter aggravated him, as though someone were raking a cheese grater up and down his skin, hard enough to rattle his bones.

Hulda had not chimed in on their stones as she had promised. He’d beleaguered her past midnight over and over, until finally Beth had answered, saying yes, Mrs. Larkin was home and well, just asleep. She must have forgotten. Which only served to make Merritt feel even more jilted than he already did. He retraced his words, wondering if he’d offended her, but he’d never gotten the chance to say his piece, so how could he have managed such a thing?

She was safe, though, and Merritt had another thing drawing in his focus, sucking away his thoughts like a newly born tornado, leaving only anxiety in its wake.

The city hall was lined with carriages and boys tending to horses. The windows glowed from within. The concert was starting any minute; he could hear violins tuning their strings.

He filtered inside behind an older couple dressed far finer than he was attired; he hadn’t particularly considered such matters when purchasing a ticket for the event. But he stopped before entering the performance room. Stopped and shook his knee, peering through the open door, where a security man of some sort eyed him.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t sit through two hours of music and watch her, unable to say anything, sandwiched between strangers caging him in. It sounded like torture. He preferred the cheese grater.

And so Merritt slipped back outside, choosing instead to walk laps around the building to keep his legs warm. He thumbed the communion stone, careful not to activate its spell, wishing to speak with someone but having no idea what he could possibly say. His thoughts were too incoherent to form words. So he walked, and walked, and walked.

The concert began; he could hear the music as he traipsed the south side of city hall, but it shifted to silence as he came around the north, stopping once to help a lad get a blanket on an impatient mare. He recognized most of the songs. He was grateful the tall windows were too high for him to peer through.

He grew chilly, so he slipped inside the building halfway through the concert, showing someone his ticket so he wouldn’t get in trouble for loitering, though that’s exactly what he did. Loitered in the foyer, catching his breath, working out what he would say, changing his mind every few minutes. When his legs grew jittery again, he stowed outside once more and circled the building in the opposite direction, strides as long as he could make them.

It was then that he noticed the larger carriages in the back—they had more cargo space than the others, but less finery. After speaking with a driver smoking a pipe, he confirmed that these were the musicians’ coaches, and a plan emerged in his mind. Merritt didn’t have to go in and hear the music, filter through the crowd, and catch Ebba’s attention. He just needed to wait by these doors for her to exit. If nothing else, it offered a semblance of privacy.

The next few songs seemed eternal, but when they finally finished and applause filled the building, Merritt forgot all about the autumn chill.

When the doors opened, his nerves coalesced into a ball, rushing up his torso before dissipating like feral dogs throughout his chest and arms. His pulse was hard, his veins stiff, his mouth dry. But he would not yield. He would not have this chance again.

The first musician to exit was a portly fellow carrying a massive black case that had to hold a tuba or some such in it. He held the door for a much slighter man towing identical luggage. Dozens of string players poured out after them. Some were focused on their carriages, but most conversed in tones of excitement. A couple of yawns came from a clarinetist. Merritt stood on his toes, searching the building crowd, all dressed in black. Most of them were men, which made his job a little easier . . . unless their bulk hid the women who traveled among them. If she reached her carriage before he saw her—

His bones and blood froze painfully, sending a rush to his head, when a familiar face slipped from the building. Pale, slight, long dark hair pulled up with careful elegance. She looked the same and yet entirely different. More mature, with slimmer cheeks. She spoke to another flutist briefly before waving goodbye and setting out for her carriage.

Old aches bubbled in Merritt’s gut. He shoved them down and strode toward her, matching his pace to hers so that they reached the carriage door at the same time.

He chose formality. “Miss Mullan, if I might have a word.”

She turned, smiling, and said, “Yes? I’ve only a moment—”

The smile faded as recognition—and horror—bloomed on her face.

With that single expression, Merritt understood that she knew exactly what she had done. Exactly why he was here.

Her breath clouded when she murmured, “M-Merritt?”

“In the flesh.” He tried to make it sound light, but the words came out heavy.

She pulled away, obviously uncomfortable. “I-I’m surprised to see you here.”

“So am I. I need to speak with you. Now.” He didn’t have much time.

She rolled her lips together. Glanced around as though she needed to be saved.

“Really, Ebba.” His toned morphed to pleading. “I only want to talk. I need to know what happened. I’m not here for you. Only for answers.”

Still, she shied away, one hand gripping the handle of her flute case, the other moving to her hair. “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Not a good idea?” he repeated, heat rising from his lungs.

“This bloke bothering you?” one of the clarinetists asked, tailed by a man without an instrument.

No. Not now. “I’m an old friend,” he said in his defense.

Ebba turned toward the clarinetist. “Oh, yes, but I’m tired and ready to go home.”

“Ebba,” Merritt pressed, but the clarinetist slipped between him and Ebba, while the second man opened the carriage door. Ebba stepped inside.

Merritt’s hands formed fists so tight his nails cut into his palms. “Ebba, I deserve to know!”

She paused.

The clarinetist put a hand on Merritt’s shoulder. “You heard her. She’s done for the night. Move on.”

Merritt shrugged the man off. “I’m not going to hurt her. Stay, if you must, but—”

“It’s all right.”

All three men turned as Ebba came out of the carriage, her flute still on the seat. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders. “I . . . I do need to speak to him. Just for a moment.”

Her friends glanced at each other, uncertain. “If you insist . . . but we’ll be just over there. Won’t leave till we see you boarded.”

Ebba nodded to them, then jerked her head toward city hall. Steeling himself with a breath, Merritt followed her to the wall, far enough from the doors that they couldn’t easily be overheard.

“Thank you.” His words were clouds on the still night air.

She finicked with her cloak hem, much the way Hulda busied herself with the end of her shawl. She looked everywhere but at him, trying to get her thoughts together—she’d always done that when discussing something uncomfortable. It brought up an odd sense of nostalgia.

He waited.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she finally said.

He nodded. “I dare say you planned it that way.”

She pressed her lips together.

Merritt leaned against the stone wall, despite its frigidity. “Why did you leave? No word, no letter . . . if you left one, I never saw it—”

“No letter,” she whispered.

“Your parents said nothing except that you’d gone to school. They wouldn’t even say where.” Like they’d shared his father’s desire to be rid of him.

She swallowed. “Oberlin.” Her voice was no louder than a falling leaf. “Oberlin College.”

He could have tracked her down, if he’d known that. Perhaps it was better that he hadn’t. He scraped his brain for something to say. “That’s . . . good. You’d always wanted the education.”

Ebba lifted her chin, but she still didn’t meet his eyes. The lights from the windows highlighted tears on her lashes.

He thought to reach out to her but kept his hands in his pockets. “Ebba—”

“I left because I was ashamed.” Tears leaked into her voice. “Because I didn’t know how else to do it.”

Merritt shook his head, not understanding. “I said . . . we were going to move, remember? Where no one knew us—”

“Not because of that.” She dabbed her eyes with the hood of her cloak. “But you’re right. You deserve to know. And it can be off my conscience, after tonight.”

One of the drivers called out. Ebba waved an arm but didn’t turn.

“Your father paid for me to go to Oberlin,” she confessed.

Merritt leaned back like he’d been pushed. “My father? Why?” And why hide it?

She drew in a deep breath. Found a spot on Merritt’s shoulder and pinned her gaze to it. “It was a bribe, Merritt.”

He still didn’t understand.

Her jaw worked. “It was a bribe. Not all of it. I did . . .” She cleared her throat. “I did care for you then. But he hated you. Said you always reminded him . . . that you were a ‘symbol’ of your mother’s unfaithfulness . . .”

Merritt stepped back and brought up his hands. “Wait. Wait. What do you mean, my mother’s unfaithfulness?”

Now she met his eyes. Her lips parted. The driver called.

“You don’t know?” she asked.

“Know what?” His head was throbbing. “Know what?”

“That you’re a bastard, Merritt!”

The silence of the night seeped around him like oil after the outburst. His ears rang. His skin pimpled. Nausea curled in his bowels.

She wiped her eyes again. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t have time—”

“He disowned me because I’m not . . . his?” he murmured.

Her eyes glistened.

He couldn’t process it. “Then whose am I?”

“I don’t know.” She glanced back to the carriages. Her cheekbones became pronounced as she pressed her lips together, readying to deliver another blow. “He offered to send me to Oberlin if I . . . if I faked a pregnancy.”

Merritt’s stomach sunk. He felt transported back thirteen years. Ebba had been awfully forward that night . . .

“I never was pregnant.”

He swallowed. “I-I know. Your parents said . . .”

“You were eighteen. That’s the only reason I can think for why he approached me then. You were old enough to go off on your own. He faced no legal repercussions for cutting you off.”

Ice to the marrow, he shook his head, although not in disbelief.

The driver called.

Ebba turned away.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Venom burned his tongue. “You didn’t think to tell me that my father played me like . . . like a chess pawn?”

Tears ran down her cheeks. “I promised not to say a word.”

“Promised?” He was shouting now. “You also promised to marry me! You said you loved me, and then you pulled . . . this?”

She was readily crying now. The clarinetist and his crony were quickly approaching. “I’m sorry, Merritt. I had to make a choice.”

“And you did,” he spat. “You made that choice at my expense. I lost everything, Ebba. I haven’t seen or spoken to my mother and sisters in thirteen years. You lied to me and tore my heart out for what, a flute?”

“It’s not like that,” she countered. “You could never understand.”

“You’re right, I couldn’t.” He jutted an accusing finger at her. “I could never understand the selfishness of a person like you.”

She was openly sobbing now, but Merritt couldn’t bring himself to care. The clarinetist put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, Miss Mullan. Let’s be done with him.”

Ebba let the man pull her away. Halfway to the carriage, she turned back and had the decency to mouth, I’m sorry. Merritt received it like a stone wall. He watched her slip into her carriage. Watched the coaches pull away, until the street was bare and the city hall was dark.

It was oddly reminiscent of his time in the root cellar. He stood there, staring at nothing, until his fingers and toes went numb, wishing his heart and thoughts would follow suit.

Rather than go numb, they burned bright, a long pyre on a dark Pennsylvania street, consuming Merritt, alone.