had turned away, as well, but not before he caught a glimpse of her expression in the bright flash of the lightning. She’d looked up at him in a mixture of fear and horror. He’d grown immune to such looks. But coming from her it angered him.
Long ago, his heart had turned to iron. If he had his way, he would shun everyone. Keep the whole damn world out. But he needed the help of a steady hand and a good pair of eyes. Pretty blue eyes, a voice inside him added.
He went and looked for her, and when she couldn’t be found, he went up the small flight of stairs to the servant’s bedroom. The door to her room was ajar a few inches and he peered in and saw her sleeping on the bed. Toeing the door open, he stepped inside. Maybe he should have just knocked, but it happened before he knew his foot was moving, and then he was inside the room.
He watched her sleep. It seemed wicked, an indulgence more sinful than the women he paid to lift their skirts for him. Here he was, a man of thirty-six, and he’d never once seen the serene, soft expression of a woman lost in her dreams. Her features were soft now, not guarded like when he’d first met her.
The attic was warm that afternoon. She had two high spots of color on her cheeks. Her beauty was unusual, angular even. A sharp prettiness. The kind that could cut a man. But those two spots of color flaming away against all that tumbling black hair softened her looks. She sighed, and flung an arm out, revealing bare skin all the way to the strap of her undergarment. It was damn tempting.
He heard the clock chime the half hour. A half hour of prime working time lost just watching her sleep. Like a fool.
When he reached out to wake her, he shook her much harder than he intended to. Her eyes snapped open and met his gaze. For a brief second, she looked at him openly, her expression unafraid. He wanted to stop time, to linger in that tiny moment. But then the moment was gone.
Penrose’s eyes widened and her hands clutched at the covers, instinctively pulling them higher. She was like all the rest, he realized, as he felt the shutters on his heart slam shut.
Penrose came to alertness from sleep in an odd rush, as if rising from a fog. Images still swirled in her brain—of Carrick looming above her, the chandelier spinning and spinning out of control, and the glittery windows of the manor watching her with their golden gaze. She knew if she opened her eyes, it would all prove true. So she lingered, stubbornly refusing to be roused. The grip turned harder still and shook her shoulders just firmly enough that she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Finally, she looked up and right into the kaleidoscope eyes of her new employer.
“You overslept.” It sounded like an accusation coming from him. The shadowy light of the afternoon made him appear deathly pale. Anger or some other emotion etched his face in a deep scowl.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice heavy with sleep. She was disoriented, staring hard at him before rubbing her eyes. It was difficult to know if she still slept and he was just a dream. “I must have been very tired,” she managed to say.
He nodded. “Well, then, I’ll leave you to get dressed. Meet me downstairs in the cellar.”
“Fine. I’ll hurry.”
He left. She jumped up and dressed quickly, blood pounding in her veins. She wasn’t sure if it was fear of him or guilt at oversleeping, but she ignored it and moved quickly. She went to the kitchen to take the stairs that led down to the cellar and was surprised to see Carrick standing at the counter, eating.
“Come. Eat,” he said, barely turning to look at her. She went and stood next to him. He held out a steaming cup of coffee for her and she grabbed it greedily and took a sip. He was eating johnnycakes. She lifted one from the basket, smeared it with butter and took a bite. It was warm and buttery.
“Tell me, Miss Heatherton,” he said, between bites, “how it is you came to the agency?”
Her stomach dropped when he mentioned the agency and she spoke quickly, trying to change the subject. “Please, my name is Penrose. But everyone calls me Penny. If you want me to call you Carrick, I’d like the same.”
“Penny it is, then,” he said, and took a swig of his coffee. “Penrose. A prominent name around here. How did you come by that as a given name?”
She froze, johnnycake in midair. She wanted to lie. It was right at the tip of her tongue, yet when she opened her mouth, the truth came tumbling out. “My father was a Penrose.”
“I see. Skeletons in the proverbial closet, then? Since the family name is your first name and not your last, I’ll ask how come he tossed over your mother?”
For some reason, his harsh tone didn’t bother her. Nobody spoke plainly about this subject. It was a refreshing change and she found that more truths came forward. “My mother was an abolitionist.”
He made a strange noise and spit coffee out of his mouth. He laughed, hunched over next to the counter. Finally he regained his composure. “A Penrose and an abolitionist? Now that’s funny. They are the most painfully backward family on God’s good planet Earth. So, was your mother able to sway him to her point of view?”
“No. Then he died in battle right before the end of the Civil War. Just before I was born.”
“Hearts and beliefs are the two hardest things to change. You were born at an interesting time. You were born before or after the Civil War ended?”
“More than that, I was born on the very last day of the war. At midnight, in fact. My mother said that they had to choose what day to pick as my birthday. Obviously, my mother chose after the war.”
He went completely still. “My, my, my. A midnight baby, and on the last day of the war? The very last minute? You’re doubly cursed, Penny. Can’t you see it? One foot on the bright side of freedom and one foot in the shameful past. A suspicious mind might say you’re destined to live two lives.”
There was something sinister about him standing there—easy as you please—talking about curses. “I wouldn’t dare believe in such nonsense. I’m a practical sort.” But her words sounded forced, a bit too high.
“Are you, now?”
She nodded and took a bite of the corn bread. Silence fell over the room.
A few minutes later, he spoke up. “Ready to work?”
They walked down the stairs. This house had so many stairways, she thought to herself. The foyer. The attic. The kitchen. It was as if the house intended for people to get lost in it. Cool air rising from the cellar swirled around her as she followed him the last few steps into the workshop, looked around and struggled to keep her chin from dropping to the floor.
She couldn’t take even one more step. Not one. The room was simply too much to absorb. She could only stand and stare dumbly. It wasn’t so much the space. Oh, it was impressive—cavernous, cool and dark, with high ceilings and a fireplace big enough to stand it. It was more the feel of the room. Expectation hung in the air, with the sharp smells of woodsmoke and oil. Every inch of the floor was crammed with odds and ends, books, piles of gleaming metal bits, cords, tubes, wires and tools. She felt as though she’d entered a deep and secret mine where magical things could be wrenched free.
Her
