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Penrose stepped into the dress. The gown swallowed her. She had always been petite, but now she was thin—too thin.
Mrs. Capshaw didn’t seem to notice and she stood back, admiring Penrose. “That’s more like it. You’ll see. It will all work out. Turn around, dear,” she said.
Penrose turned, and the woman drew the gown tight and began buttoning it up. “This is your only dress?” she asked with concern. “The one you wore to your mother’s funeral?”
“I’m sorry. It’s all I have.” The rich black fabric had faded to gray at the elbows and the hem had turned to fringe. “I sold the others,” she whispered, hating the need to confess the small, shameful adjustments she’d had to make in the past few months.
Mrs. Capshaw sighed. “It’s so morose. I can only hope a somber look will work in your favor.” She tightened the final button and cinched the ribbon into a bow. “Now, where’s your bonnet?”
“I’ll get it. It’s at the window. I need to comb my hair, too.” In her heart she was still reluctant, her decision not yet made. But she went through the motions, fighting the comb through her inky hair. While she wrestled her hair into a tight bun, Mrs. Capshaw explained what she was to do.
“Charlie can drive you to the manor,” she said, referring to her husband and bartender. Even though Charlie was married to Mrs. Capshaw, he was no Mr. Capshaw. Simply Charlie. She continued, “You’ll have to sleep the night outside. We can’t risk you leaving tomorrow. She might catch on in the light of day. Anyhow, it shouldn’t be too hard. The gentleman’s name is Mr. Carrick Arundell. Remember, seven sharp. Very specific about that. Don’t worry about the little miss here, it’s all for the best.” She took Penrose by the hand. “Come now, let’s go down the stairs.”
When they reached the landing, Mrs. Capshaw put a hand on her shoulder. “Hold it,” she said. “Hmm. Can’t do to arrive without any belongings. It will make you look wanting. Needful.” She twisted her lips as she thought and then lifted a finger. “I’ve got it. Just a moment.” She left Penrose on the stairs.
Penrose heard her then. A breathy, feminine voice wafting up the stairwell. She couldn’t help herself and crept lower, down the winding staircase until she could see her—with the benefit of a wall that partially hid Penrose from view. The woman sat at the corner table. Even though the late crowd had begun to arrive, Penrose could still see her clearly.
No, this woman hadn’t sunk to the level that she had. Oh, certainly she oozed that refined look of genteel suffering, a bit worn at the edges. No doubt, there was even a small, graciously suffering smile on her lips. The kind of smile that Penrose couldn’t quite muster anymore.
The little blond head bobbed as she spoke. “It might not be worth the fear, the fright of living with such a man,” she drawled.
What could be so frightening about a mere man? Nothing, that’s what. But to make matters worse she continued, “I’m not so hungry that I will endure fright and intimidation. Not me. I can always stay with my sister. Perhaps another might endure such a thing, but I’m hesitant. Are things so bad that I must suffer for employment?”
Penrose’s eyes burned, and her fingers itched with the urge to strike out. Yes, they are, you silly woman. Yes, they are.
“But what about those wages?” Charlie asked.
The woman named the amount of pay, and a small choking noise escaped from Penrose’s lips. Both the woman and Charlie turned in her direction and she slunk back into the shadows.
“They say,” the woman continued in a grave voice, “that he must pay such a wild sum because of all the awful things that go on in that house. I’ve heard he’s wicked. I’ve heard he’s...dark.”
“The men talk, you know. I’ve heard the same.” Charlie stood leaning over the counter and wiping a whiskey glass with his rag. “And worse, too. Still, those wages. Any man would be proud to earn such a sum for a year’s labor.”
“Oh, that’s not a year of wages. That’s for a month.”
The shrill clink of the glass slipping from Charlie’s hand and hitting the counter rang out. Or maybe it was the sound of her conscience turning to ice. But whatever decency was left inside her hungry soul fled when she heard that sum. Right then and there, her mind turned rock-solid certain. The risks be damned. Dark arts meant nothing to her. That job would be hers. All she needed was one paycheck, just one, and she could recover. She could start again in a new city. She could open her own school with a new identity.
Distinctive footfalls came down the stairs. Penrose turned and saw Mrs. Capshaw standing on the rise above her. “Well?” she asked in a hearty whisper. “Heard enough?”
Penrose nodded. “Have you the bag?” she asked pointedly.
“Of course.” Mrs. Capshaw held it out. “I stuffed it with newspapers to look full.”
“It’s perfect,” said Penrose, taking the bag. It was dusty black and light as air. “I’ll go and wait outside for Charlie.”
“Of course. I’ll let him know.” The woman grabbed Penrose by the arm. “Penrose, you won’t regret this. Trust me.”
Trust was not a word she associated with Mrs. Capshaw, but the woman seemed sincere, and she nodded in reply. They descended the rest of the stairs together. Once on the ground floor, Penrose moved through the pub area swiftly, Mrs. Capshaw right behind her. Charlie looked up and smiled from behind the bar, but before he could say a single word to her, Penrose opened the door and stepped outside. Not once did she look at the woman. She couldn’t bear to. She didn’t want to risk developing a conscience and changing her mind.
Outside, she leaned against the wall of the inn and took deep breaths. What exactly was she doing? Mrs. Capshaw stood stoically beside her.
Penrose breathed a sigh of relief when Charlie emerged from the pub. “Are you okay, Penny?” he asked, taking a long look at her before turning to his wife. “What’s going on? Why did you pull me outside?”
“I need you to ready the buggy. There’s something you need to do.”
“Oh, no,” he said with a sigh. “What are you up to?” He shook his head. “I should’ve known—you had that look about you.” Turning to Penrose, he said, “Has she pulled you into some plan?”
“Well...” began Penrose.
Mrs. Capshaw practically pounced on the man. “Charlie,” she muttered, “leave be and don’t intrude. This is for the best. You’ll see. Don’t say another word of protest. Go and ready that buggy. Take Penny to the river road that leads to the mansions. Drop her off and come right back. She’s lucky enough to have a position waiting.”
He looked dubious, his white, bushy eyebrows drawing together. “All of a sudden like this?” Suddenly he leaned toward his wife and his voice grew accusing. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with our new guest, would it?”
A little huff of anger escaped the woman. “Of course it does. It has everything to do with our guest. But don’t say a word, Charlie. Not a word. My plans will work out this time.” Mrs. Capshaw spoke with authority. “You drive her to the river and return to me. Straightaway.”
“Answer me this first, wife. Where’s her position?”
“Arundell Manor.”
It was the first time Penrose heard the name. Arundell Manor. The words hung in the air like an echo from a bell. It pleased Penrose and a strange sense of calmness swelled within her.
Charlie did not have the same reaction, however. “Arundell Manor! You’re snatching that woman’s job! That’s no coup! Are you cruel? You’re sending her there?”
“Charlie,” said Mrs. Capshaw in something close to a growl.
“Arundell Manor? You must be three sheets to the wind! That man will kill her as surely as we stand here now. There’s something very wrong with that man, and all of Charleston knows it. He’s dangerous and wicked...and downright frightening. The stories I hear about that...that monster.”
Beneath the lamplight, Mrs. Capshaw looked at Charlie with a gaze of iron. “Charlie Capshaw, you will keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.”
“I can’t in good conscience—” he sputtered.
“Stop,” said Penrose. She was strangely settled in her mind with the decision. The name of the manor struck a chord inside her as if fate had been summoned and there was no stopping it. She put her hand on Charlie’s arm. “Charlie, I’ve already accepted it, whatever may come,” she said with resolve.
Charlie looked at her a moment before shaking his head. “You don’t understand, child. I hear things in the pub. He’s trying to create a man. Think on that. It’s said that no woman will ever go near him. Ever. Some have even whispered dark magic is afoot in that house.”
“Charles Edgar Capshaw. There you go again! I’ve told you before...” Her voice trailed away to nothing. Mrs. Capshaw had never spoken quite so harshly before and they all turned quiet. She looked to Penrose. “Don’t listen, dear. Go, go to the position and see for yourself.” Then she turned to Charlie. “Get the buggy! And be quick about it!”
He backed away in small steps, shaking his head. “Mark my words,” he said in a low voice before turning and stomping off into the darkness.
“Don’t let Charlie scare you.”
“He doesn’t,” she replied, which was the truth. A future with no income scared her more than men’s tales when they were deep in their cups.
Charlie returned with the buggy and, after she was settled, he drove her through Charleston, past the harbor with its ships bobbing in the water and the fat moon flying high above them. Penrose smelled the sweet perfume of gladiolas heavy in the air. She felt oddly happy. Dark magic or no, the pay would take care of everything. She laughed.
“I wouldn’t take it so lightly,” said Charlie, glancing over at her, flicking the whip above the head of the horse. They passed through the gates of Charleston and traveled through the thick woods before reaching the stone gates of the manor. The iron gates were thrown wide open, heedless of any intruders. Charlie slowed the carriage to a stop, then turned to look at her. “Penny,” he said, patting her on the shoulder, “promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I will. I promise. Everything will be fine, don’t worry.”
“I always worry when Mrs. Capshaw is scheming.”
She picked up the valise and climbed down. “This time, it will work out grand. You’ll see.”
“I hope so, dear. I hope so,” he said, snapping the whip in the air. With a neigh, the horse came to life and the carriage pulled away. It had gone a few paces when he called out to her. “Remember, Penny, you can always come back and start again if you’d like. Don’t think you’re trapped. You’re never trapped.”
“Thank you, Charlie,” she said, and watched as the carriage rode out of sight.
She set off down the manor road with nervous steps, unsure exactly what she had gotten herself into. Only one thing was certain. The choice had been her own, so she deserved whatever the future held for her.
Oak trees lined the bone-white road like sentinels, and she walked beneath them until the road spilled out onto a wide clearing of land. Some distance away, the house floated, eerie and ghostly white under the moonlight. She settled under one of the large oaks at the end of the path, her eyes trained on the ghostly house. Two windows were illuminated. They glowed like orange eyes and she saw the dark figure of a man cross in front of them. Her heart beat wildly. Was that him? Was that Carrick Arundell?
Once more the figure passed by the window, except this time he stopped and stood in front of it. Her skin pulled tight in gooseflesh. It seemed that he stared through the darkness and looked right at her. Her heart beat wildly, and her thoughts ran unchecked. Perhaps right now he was practicing his dark magic. Stop it, she chided herself. He was only a man. He couldn’t be that bad.
The light of day would bring answers. Tomorrow she would know everything. Tomorrow her future would become the present. In the meantime, she must sleep. But she couldn’t stop herself from watching the dark figure pace back and forth in the window. Back and forth, again and again. Endlessly.
Chapter 2
Penrose opened her eyes, her body stiff, the dew from the evening before settled on her skin and hair. Arundell Manor stood before her, no longer ghostly, but regal, and she couldn’t stop staring at the sight. The early sun poured pink rays of light over the white stone walls. The windows—and there were dozens of them—all glistened in a gold sheen. The rich green grasses that stretched before her were silvered in morning dew. A pond, invisible to her in the night, lay under a blanket of mist. The home slept in quiet splendor.
Her gown was damp. She stood, brushing away the pine needles and drops of dew before straightening her hair and bonnet and pinching her cheeks for color. Lifting the valise, she walked along the bone-white gravel path, each step of her boots a loud crunch in the still morning air. There were forty-four steps leading to the massive front doors, she thought as she climbed and counted each one. She was aware of every move as if someone was already watching her from behind the glittering windows. Penrose couldn’t shake the sensation.
Standing in front of the brass knocker, she took a deep, steadying breath. You can do this, she told herself. The rising sun warmed her backside and seemed almost to agree. Lifting the heavy knocker, she let it fall and listened as the hammer strike echoed on and on behind the door. She waited, then waited some more, but there was no answer, so she tried again.
Finally, there came a fumbling noise; a latch turned and the door swung open. Sunlight streamed past her and into the house, striking a crystal chandelier that hung low in the foyer. Glass orbs and shards grabbed the light and tossed about a brilliant rainbow of colors, blinding her. She flinched and stepped backward, her boot heel catching on the fabric of her skirt. Down she went, limbs akimbo, the piazza floor rising up fast to greet her. But as she fell, she caught a glimpse of a man—a dark outline of his tall frame. His features were invisible against the white stone of the house.
Then the ground slapped her hard enough to rattle her teeth. So much for a good first impression. The sunlight poured relentlessly on her. She shielded her eyes and looked up.
“You find me that offensive?” His voice was low and sleep-filled, tainted with anger. No, she realized, the voice wasn’t tainted with mere anger—it was laced with something close to rage. Or worse.
From beneath her hand, her eyes darted left and right, searching for the man who spoke with such venom. “I can’t see you,” she said, feeling foolish.
A face swung into view, inches from her own. “I’m easy to miss,” he said. Eyes the color of a thousand sunsets swept over her face in a harsh gaze. Reds and purples and blues shifted and swirled within the irises. She shrank from him and sucked air into her lungs like a dying woman. Her hand fell away from her brow, revealing the man in his entirety. Stupidly, she sat there, blinking, trying to fathom exactly what she was seeing.
He stood there in the bright sunlight, white as snow, clad in black sleeping trousers and a robe that lay open to his waist. His skin was powder white—white beyond fathoming—as if milk had been added to an already pale skin tone, bringing forth an unnatural brightness. To look at him was to look upon the facets of a diamond; it hurt the eye to take him in. His muscles were etched into hard lines on his torso and he had a winter’s blaze of white hair that crowned a youthful, vigorous-looking face. All that white hair and he couldn’t be more than thirty-five. She stared, openmouthed.
“At least have the courtesy to shut your mouth while you stare at me,” he said, each word scraping out exactly as her boots had on the walkway moments before. He held out a hand.
She hesitated, swallowed hard and then finally slipped her hand into his. His hand was warm and she couldn’t help but be surprised by this. She had half expected his touch to have the cold chill of death on it. He pulled her to her feet, yanked her right up, and she stood in his shadow—for he was very tall, indeed—panting, trying to collect her thoughts.
“Well?” he said, a sneer twisting his features. Was he handsome?
“I’m sorry,” she said, her brain scrambling for words. “The agency sent me, sir. I’m here for the position.” She chanced one more look—she couldn’t help it. His face was too young, too beautiful and too strong for that white hair. And those eyes. God help her, those eyes.
He said nothing, merely watched her as she watched him. He seemed determined to shock her, unconcerned as he was with his half-dressed state. “Have you seen enough?” he finally asked. A touch of sleep lingered in the drawl of his voice, giving him an almost casual arrogance.
“I apologize,” she said, busying herself by leaning down to pick up her valise. “I was surprised, and all the lights startled me.”
He sniffed and shook his head. “The agency sent you? And who exactly are you and why did you come to my door at this ungodly hour?”
“Heatherton.” She extended her hand. “Penrose Heatherton.”
He didn’t take it. His eyes held hers. She thought of the crystal rainbow from the chandelier; the colors shifting, changing. Finally, he said, “Tell me, Miss Heatherton—”
“Yes?” She held her hand extended for another moment, a bit too long, before pulling it back and wringing both hands together awkwardly.
“Miss Heatherton,” he repeated, his Southern drawl low and conspiratorial. “Why in the world are you knocking on my door at the break of dawn?”
“The agency told me to arrive at seven a.m.” This wasn’t going well, she realized. Not at all as she had imagined it. For a lot of different reasons.
“P.M.,” he said harshly. “Post meridiem. Or generally speaking...in the evening. I told the agency specifically that I needed the applicant to show up at seven p.m.”
“Oh,” she said foolishly, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks.
His gaze skipped over hers, lowered to her lips and returned once again to her eyes. “That’s right—p.m.,” he said slowly. “So, not only are you a full day early, you reported at the wrong time. I was asleep, and now you’ve woken me.”
“I’m so sorry.” The blush in her cheeks must be red as fire, because her face burned.
“I’m certain you’ve noticed my affliction. I am cursed with paleness. A lack of pigment. Albinism.” His chin jutted into the air defiantly. “It does not lend itself to sunlight. I keep night hours, and I’m very protective of them.” He sighed, and those unapologetic eyes didn’t look away from her. “But you’re here. Though I specifically requested someone who wasn’t attractive. Makes it easier.” Those eyes still rested on her. The heat on her face grew to volcanic levels. “I take it you can read and write?”
“Of course.”
“How’s your eyesight?”
“Perfect.”
He nodded. “And your hands? Can you can handle fine tools and small mechanical parts? Smaller than a fingernail?
“I’m very sure-handed.”
“You can work the night through? Adjust to my schedule?”
“Certainly.”
“Good. It’s what I value most. That, and discretion.” He stepped aside the slightest bit to make room for her, forcing her to brush against him as she entered. “Come in.”
She took in the interior of the house with a few quick glances: white marble floors, a high ceiling—two floors high—stairs that curled in an elegant arc to the second floor, archways that led to other rooms. A huge grandfather clock began to chime. Sheets covered the furniture and paintings as if the house were bedded down while its owners were away. Splatters of rainbow light still spun over everything.
He shut the door and the blinding rainbows disappeared. When she turned around, he was beside her, almost too close. Shocked at his willingness to invade her independent space, she pulled away from him. Her reaction was an odd mix of aversion and excitement. He seemed dangerous.
He stilled. “Forgive me. My eyesight is very poor, and I am used to stepping close in order to see something.” Then, with a lingering glance, he turned around, and she knew that a moment where they might have established a cordialness between them was lost. When he spoke, it was with a firm and cold voice. “I won’t give you a tour as you’ve already interrupted my sleep. I’m heading to bed. You will start tonight.” He turned and began to climb the stairs.
She followed, taking small, anxious steps. “I’m to work your hours, then?”
“How else do you expect to be my assistant?” His voice boomed in the open space. The stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed, his black robe swirling in the air behind him.
“Of course, Mr. Arundell.”
Without turning around, he waved his hand angrily. “Don’t call me Mr. Arundell. My father was Mr. Arundell, and he’s dead now. Call me Carrick. You’ll be ready to work at dusk and you’ll be with me until dawn. The work is intense, requires a steady hand and a sharp mind. Are you certain that you’re up for the task?”
“I am.” She peered down the hall. “Is there anything you want me to accomplish before we start tonight?”
“The day is yours, Miss. Heatherton. But if I were you, I would sleep, for the night will be a long one.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“You have the run of the house, except for the doors in the kitchen that lead down to the cellar. That is my workroom, and you only enter with me. The house has no staff. You’ll have to see to your own needs.” He was standing on the landing by then. “I’m sure your agency has warned you of my...disposition.”
“Yes. I’ve been warned.” Not enough, though, not enough, she thought. Or perhaps she should have listened to Charlie more closely. But, still, the pay would be worth it. She hoped.
“Good. Then I can dispense with pleasantries. You’ll find a small stairway in the second-floor hall that leads straight up to your room.”
“Fine, yes, then I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yes. Tonight.” As he walked away, she was unable to tear her eyes away from his retreating form.
Then he was gone, and she stood alone in the entry hall. Or so she thought.
* * *
It was a testament to Penrose’s desperation that she stayed the day in that strange mansion. Forty-one rooms and she had walked through fourteen of them before her fear got the better of her and she went and sat in the front parlor, which was so large it was more of a great room. Not a person or servant had shown themselves, and yet the house looked well maintained and orderly. One thing drove her crazy—no matter where she went in the mansion, she could hear the grandfather clock ticking.
The front parlor had a large picture window that looked out over the front lawn. The view was like a fancy oil painting, with a serene pond and a large oak tree standing watch over it. It was easy to imagine a family gathering in this very room every evening, playing games and enjoying the twilight hours. But the eerie quiet of the house belied that image. It was a tomb. And even though the house was dead quiet, save for the clock, something else unsettled her even more. She was standing, staring out of the window and wondering exactly what it was, when the realization hit her.
It felt as if someone was watching her.
The sensation was similar to what she’d felt when she first arrived. But it didn’t seem like nonsense this time. It was very real, and she spun around, eyes darting left and right, skimming the room. What did she expect to find? This was silly. She had the sudden urge to be free of the house, to stand outside in the sun, where everything made sense. There was nothing scary with the wind in your hair and the sunshine on your cheeks.
Her mind was made up. She would go outside. As she walked from the room, she glanced at the door frame and something caught her eye. A growth chart had been carved into the frame. Names and dates were scratched into the wood, noting the heights of children as they grew. All the scratchings were muted and dulled with age.