Page 3 of Mistress of Darkness

Chapter 2

Gwen shook her head, trying to wake as she sat up. She’d fallen into such a deep sleep.

“Miss?” Frances said again. “Are you there?”

“Yes, Frances,” Gwen said, slumber still in her voice. “Come in.”

The exhaustion of worry, the burden of her sisterly duty, and the winter travel had all taken their toll.

Frances entered, curtsied, and closed the door behind her, before proceeding to light the candle on the nightstand.

Although Gwen wasn’t used to having a lady’s maid, she was immediately grateful. Frances helped her up from the bed. The girl was younger than she was, perhaps even younger than her sister, and considerably younger than the one servant that the Archers still employed—Alice, her old nurse. As their fortunes had sunk lower in these last few unkind years, her father had been forced to let the other servants go. But they could no sooner let Alice go than they could a member of the family. Ofttimes, it was Gwen or her mother who took care of Alice.

As Frances helped her change out of her dress, Gwen’s thoughts returned to the present.

“I think I shall wear the periwinkle,” she said, reaching for it from the armoire.

“Allow me, Miss,” Frances said, removing it for her.

For just the briefest moment, the young girl ran her fingers over the shiny and almost sheer material of the long sleeve. Then she lifted it over Gwen’s head and helped it to settle over her white petticoat and stays. When Frances finished with the row of buttons in the back, Gwen adjusted the neckline and sat at the dressing table.

By the way Frances deftly combed the stray locks of her hair into place and adjusted the hairpins, Gwen knew she must have experience, despite her youth.

“How long has Mr. Sheraton been at the hall?” Gwen asked of the maid’s reflection.

Frances hesitated for a moment. “A week, Miss,” she said. “The master wanted to make sure the hall was ready.” The maid’s lower lip trembled, but she said no more as she finished her task.

“That will be all, Frances,” Gwen said, and watched the girl curtsy and leave.

Gwen leaned toward the mirror and examined her appearance critically. Her short slumber had done her some good. The dark circles under her eyes had almost gone, though not completely. Her skin, however, was pallid, which would not do. As she rose and stepped to the door, she pinched her cheeks.

Outside Gwen was met by another young lady that she didn’t recognize.

She curtsied perfectly with a bow of her head. “Good evening, Miss,” she said. “I’m Agnes. The master sent me to show you downstairs.”

“I’m sure I’m grateful, Agnes,” Gwen replied, smiling.

As Gwen followed the maid, she noticed that Agnes walked with a slight limp and also clasped the handrail. But her injury or infirmity, whichever it might be, did nothing to slow her descent. In only a few minutes, they were at the entrance hall, then the reception hall. At its end, a pair of footmen bowed to her and took hold of concealed handles behind them. What seemed to be a wall opened outward. Gwen nearly jumped back, and only managed to conceal her astonishment in time. She had arrived at the dining room.

Robert stood abruptly, almost knocking over his chair. He bowed awkwardly, not meeting her gaze, as she stifled a laugh. In a flash he was at her chair pulling it out for her. Smoothly, she took her seat, and watched as he returned to his.

All around them were panels of dark wood painted with tall, narrow murals, framed by inlaid mosaics. Each painting depicted scenes from antiquity, with temples that appeared to be home to the likes of Herakles, Theseus, and Pandora.

“It’s not particularly to my taste,” Robert said. “But I haven’t the heart to destroy the idyllic Greek countryside.”

She hadn’t been aware that he’d been watching her. “I certainly agree,” she said.

He gestured to the footmen, who left and returned almost immediately with the soup.

“It is a pleasure to dine with you, Miss Archer,” Robert said, as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. She recalled the same gesture from her arrival, and wondered if it might be a nervous habit. What would make a man like Robert nervous?

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Sheraton,” she replied.

As the soup was served, she stole a few glances at him, and noticed him doing the same.

“I trust your chambers are to your liking?” he inquired.

“Oh very much so,” she said genuinely, before tasting the soup, though she could smell it. “Artichoke. One of my favorites.” She took a spoonful. “This is delicious.”