Yours Until Dawn Read Online Free PDF Page B

behind them.
    At the top of the basement stairs, Mrs. Philpot suddenly stopped, nearly creating a disastrous chain reaction. “Shhhhh! Listen!” she commanded.
    They all held their breath, but heard only one thing.
    Silence.
    As their hushed parade passed through room after room, their shoes no longer crunched over shattered and splintered debris. Moonlight streamed through the unveiled windows, revealing that the floors had been swept clean and the broken furniture separated into two tidy piles— one with the pieces considered salvageable and the other useful for nothing but kindling. Although some of the heaviest pieces remained, a path had been cleared through most of the rooms, with all of the fragile objects banished to the highest perches of mantel and bookshelf. Any rug whose braided hem or fringe might catch an unsuspecting foot had also been rolled up and shoved against the wall.
    It was in a pale puddle of moonlight in the library that they found their master’s new nurse curled up on an ottoman, sound asleep. The servants gathered around her, openly gawking.
    The earl’s previous nurses had been content to occupy that rather murky social strata usually reserved for governesses or tutors. They certainly weren’t considered equal to their employer, but nor did they deign to lower themselves by associating with the other servants. They took their meals in their rooms and would have gasped with horror at the prospect of turning their soft white hands to such menial tasks as sweeping floors or dragging heavy curtains out into the yard for an airing.
    Miss Wickersham’s hands were no longer soft or white. The pale ovals of her fingernails were broken and rimmed with dirt. A bloody blister had formed on her right hand, between thumb and forefinger. Her spectacles sat askew on her nose and as they watched, a gentle snore sent the limp tendril of hair that had fallen over her nose floating up, then back down again.
    “Should I wake her?” Elsie whispered.
    “I doubt that you could,” Beckwith said softly. “The poor child is plainly exhausted.” He crooked a finger at one of the larger footmen. “Why don’t you carry Miss Wickersham up to her room, George? Take one of the maids with you.”
    “I’ll go,” Elsie said eagerly, forgetting her shyness.
    As the footman gathered Miss Wickersham into his burly arms, one of the scullery maids reached up to gently correct the angle of her spectacles.
    After they were gone, Mrs. Philpot continued to stare down at the ottoman, her expression unreadable.
    Sidling closer to her, Beckwith awkwardly cleared his throat. “Shall I dismiss the rest of the servants for the night?”
    The housekeeper slowly lifted her head. Her gray eyes had gone steely with determination. “I should say not. There’s much work yet to be done and I won’t have them loafing about any longer, leaving their duties to their betters.” She snapped her fingers at the two remaining footmen. “Peter, you and Phillip take that chaise longue and shove it against the wall.” Exchanging a grin, the twins hastened to take up each end of the heavy couch. “Careful, now!” she chided. “If you nick the rosewood, I’ll take the cost of repairs out of your wages and your hides.”
    Rounding on the startled maids, she clapped her hands, the sound echoing through the library like a gunshot. “Betsy, Jane, fetch us a pair of mops, some rags, and a bucket of hot water. My mum always said that there’s no point in sweeping if you’re not going to mop. And now that we’ve got the curtains down, the windows will be that much easier to wash.” When the maids just stood gaping at her, she began to shoo them toward the door with her apron. “Don’t just stand there with your mouths hanging open like a pair of beached trout. Go. Go! ”
    Mrs. Philpot marched to one of the casement windows and threw it open. “Ah!” she exclaimed, her chest expanding as she drew in an intoxicating breath of the