believe a young man should always be rewarded for both his bravery and his gallantry.”
“Oh, sir!” Hammett gaped down at the purse, a disbelieving grin splitting his gaunt face. “Why, thank you, sir! Me mum and me sisters thank you, too. Or at least they will once they see this!” Although he was plainly itching to go, he shot the house another reluctant glance. “Would ye like me to wait until ye’re safely in?”
“I appreciate the offer but that won’t be—”
Just like that, Hammett snapped the reins, wheeled the cart around, and went careening down the hill.
“—necessary,” Max finished on a whisper heard only by his ears. The rattle of the cart wheels quickly faded, leaving him all alone with the desolate wail of the wind.
Gripping his portmanteau in one hand and his walking stick in the other, he turned toward the house. Once, he had imagined returning from some long journey to a far different scenario. One where a loving wife ran out to greet him, trailed perhaps by a towheaded moppet or two, all eager to leap into his arms, smother his face in kisses, and welcome him home.
Squaring his shoulders, Max went striding toward the door, ruthlessly banishing that vision from both his imagination and his hopes. As he climbed the stone stairs leading up to the makeshift portico tacked onto the gatehouse, the wind tossed a few fresh droplets of rain into his face.
Drawing off his hat, he hesitated at the top of the stairs. He was at a complete loss as to how he should proceed. He was accustomed to being greeted with deference wherever he went, not left standing outside a closed door like some beggar at the gates of heaven.
Should he use the tarnished brass knocker to alertthe servants to his arrival? Should he test the doorknob himself? Or should he just go striding into the place as if he owned it?
Which, of course, he bloody well did.
He was lifting his walking stick to give the door a firm rap when it began to swing slowly inward, its unoiled hinges creaking in protest.
Chapter Five
M AX STOOD HIS GROUND, half-expecting to be greeted by a swirl of mist or some chain-clanking ghoul. A stocky, stoop-shouldered man with a snowy white mane of hair appeared in the doorway, bearing a single silver candlestick. The candle’s flame cast wavering shadows over the man’s downcast face, a victim of his unsteady hand.
Without a word of explanation or greeting, the man turned toward the interior of the house, as if it were of no particular import to him whether Max chose to follow.
Max cocked a questioning eyebrow but didn’t hesitate for long. While the musty smell and flickering candlelight could hardly be called cozy, it was a definite improvement over the darkness and damp of the night.
The two-story entrance hall of the manor was covered in some sort of burgundy velvet-flockedpaper. Sections of it had peeled away in moldering strips to reveal the unpainted plaster beneath. Max suspected some valuable wainscoting was buried beneath it as well. Despite enduring the abuses of more recent centuries, the ancient gatehouse had sound structural bones.
His gaze drifted upward as they passed beneath a grand chandelier. Cobwebs draped the fixture’s tarnished brass arms, and its once-graceful tapers were melted down to beeswax nubs. On the far side of the entrance hall, a broad staircase climbed up to a second-story gallery shrouded in shadows. A handsome longcase clock hugged the wall at the foot of the stairs, its pendulum hanging still and silent. Its gilded hands were frozen, seemingly forever, at a quarter past midnight.
Max’s silent escort led him through a pair of open pocket doors and into the drawing room. A handful of oil lamps scattered on various tables battled the gloom. Despite their valiant efforts, it wasn’t difficult to see whythe manor had looked so dark and inhospitable from the drive. The house had been graced with ample windows, but dusty velvet drapes guarded every one of
“Oh, sir!” Hammett gaped down at the purse, a disbelieving grin splitting his gaunt face. “Why, thank you, sir! Me mum and me sisters thank you, too. Or at least they will once they see this!” Although he was plainly itching to go, he shot the house another reluctant glance. “Would ye like me to wait until ye’re safely in?”
“I appreciate the offer but that won’t be—”
Just like that, Hammett snapped the reins, wheeled the cart around, and went careening down the hill.
“—necessary,” Max finished on a whisper heard only by his ears. The rattle of the cart wheels quickly faded, leaving him all alone with the desolate wail of the wind.
Gripping his portmanteau in one hand and his walking stick in the other, he turned toward the house. Once, he had imagined returning from some long journey to a far different scenario. One where a loving wife ran out to greet him, trailed perhaps by a towheaded moppet or two, all eager to leap into his arms, smother his face in kisses, and welcome him home.
Squaring his shoulders, Max went striding toward the door, ruthlessly banishing that vision from both his imagination and his hopes. As he climbed the stone stairs leading up to the makeshift portico tacked onto the gatehouse, the wind tossed a few fresh droplets of rain into his face.
Drawing off his hat, he hesitated at the top of the stairs. He was at a complete loss as to how he should proceed. He was accustomed to being greeted with deference wherever he went, not left standing outside a closed door like some beggar at the gates of heaven.
Should he use the tarnished brass knocker to alertthe servants to his arrival? Should he test the doorknob himself? Or should he just go striding into the place as if he owned it?
Which, of course, he bloody well did.
He was lifting his walking stick to give the door a firm rap when it began to swing slowly inward, its unoiled hinges creaking in protest.
Chapter Five
M AX STOOD HIS GROUND, half-expecting to be greeted by a swirl of mist or some chain-clanking ghoul. A stocky, stoop-shouldered man with a snowy white mane of hair appeared in the doorway, bearing a single silver candlestick. The candle’s flame cast wavering shadows over the man’s downcast face, a victim of his unsteady hand.
Without a word of explanation or greeting, the man turned toward the interior of the house, as if it were of no particular import to him whether Max chose to follow.
Max cocked a questioning eyebrow but didn’t hesitate for long. While the musty smell and flickering candlelight could hardly be called cozy, it was a definite improvement over the darkness and damp of the night.
The two-story entrance hall of the manor was covered in some sort of burgundy velvet-flockedpaper. Sections of it had peeled away in moldering strips to reveal the unpainted plaster beneath. Max suspected some valuable wainscoting was buried beneath it as well. Despite enduring the abuses of more recent centuries, the ancient gatehouse had sound structural bones.
His gaze drifted upward as they passed beneath a grand chandelier. Cobwebs draped the fixture’s tarnished brass arms, and its once-graceful tapers were melted down to beeswax nubs. On the far side of the entrance hall, a broad staircase climbed up to a second-story gallery shrouded in shadows. A handsome longcase clock hugged the wall at the foot of the stairs, its pendulum hanging still and silent. Its gilded hands were frozen, seemingly forever, at a quarter past midnight.
Max’s silent escort led him through a pair of open pocket doors and into the drawing room. A handful of oil lamps scattered on various tables battled the gloom. Despite their valiant efforts, it wasn’t difficult to see whythe manor had looked so dark and inhospitable from the drive. The house had been graced with ample windows, but dusty velvet drapes guarded every one of
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