His Haunted Heart (5 page)

Chapter Five

Delilah

I woke to an empty bed, but I didn’t know why it surprised me. Sleeping by myself was as normal as the sunrise itself. I knew Porter would be gone and even if he was still here, he wouldn’t be here with me. What surprised me was that I lamented the loss.

The sun was still conversing with the branches of the Cypress trees outside when I looked through the window. A singing rooster welcomed the morning somewhere far away.

I almost expected to see my little phantom friend outside, waiting to haunt me again, but I saw nothing short of a normal breathtaking morning.

Then again, anything was breathtaking in comparison to where I’d woken up the day before.

I washed up in the sink after only three attempts at getting the water to turn on. Calendula soap tickled my nose and made me sneeze. My poor nose was used to filth and ashes—none of the flower smelling stuff.

I sighed looking at my choices for dress. As if I didn’t stand apart among the rich furnishings of the home already, my clothes were even more worn looking than the cook. I was like a rotting rose in a bouquet of fresh cut daisies. Then again, I was downright afraid of what Porter had chosen.

“Did you look at the things Porter bought for you? I’m not sure if they will fit, but we tried.”

My mother-in-law was a mind reader.

Her hand was laid on my shoulder. Still not accustomed to the touch of others so often, I twitched and then relaxed.

“I looked a bit yesterday, but was overwhelmed. He really shouldn’t have.”

“Come, it’s all in the wardrobe. We can fill up the closet later.”

Eliza threw open both doors of the tall mahogany wardrobe and revealed more dresses and clothing than I’d ever owned in my life—maybe in mine and my sisters’ lives combined. A tear flickered in my eye at the sight. I knew that I was pawned off to the first person who had shown interest, but Porter was showing me kindness beyond my station—beyond what I deserved.

“Oh, don’t you cry. You’ll make me cry. Look at these. Maybe if I didn’t stuff my gullet with breads, I could fit in tiny clothes like this too.” She saw my hesitation in touching the garments. It was like my hands weren’t fit to hold them. “Pick the first outfit that you see, the first thing that catches your eye.”

A skirt the color of a dehydrated oak leaf hung the lowest and I fingered the edges, thinking that I’d never seen material that looked so soft, it must’ve been illusion.

“There is a matching corset as well.” Eliza noticed my attraction to the skirt and began flitting through the hangers, looking for its lover. “Here, it matches the black shirt and the cream-colored one. Which one would you like?”

I was tired of wearing black and gray as if in perpetual funeral garb.

“The cream, please.”

“I…” Eliza stuttered, handing over my new clothes and now pulling my hair at the ends. “I could fix your hair. I’ve never had a daughter. It would give me such joy.”

“I’ve never had someone who wanted to fix my hair, so we are even. Give me a moment to dress and then my hair is yours.”

With a clap and a giggle, she exited the room. If Porter was to be gone often, I would need to make friends with the woman who shared a connection to him. It was imperative.

Avoiding the mirror, I stepped back into the bathroom and put on the clothes. It didn’t skip my notice that I’d slept in the same clothes I’d arrived in which meant that I didn’t even remember putting myself to bed. I must’ve been exceptionally tired.

My clothes were a little large, even after the tightening of the corset. I felt exposed without my threadbare shawl.

“Is there a shawl or something to cover my shoulders?” The question was posed as I opened the door to my mother-in-law, now pacing in front of the doors.

“Of course. There’s also a cloak. I thought maybe you’d like to take a walk around the property before breakfast. Be alone with your thoughts a bit. You seem like the kind of girl who appreciates a few breaths alone.”

“I would appreciate that very much. Thank you.”

“Now, sit at your vanity. Let me see what I’ve been missing with only a son.”

I sat down on the pillow-seated chair but chose to look down at the trinkets that decorated the surface instead of the mirror. Eliza chose the brush with delicate ornamental paintings of ladies getting ready for the day brushed onto the head. Her strokes were kind and gentle, and I actually found it pleasant. The task of fixing my hair had always been in my own hands and it wasn’t until I was older that I procured a method to the madness, saving both my sanity and my scalp.

“You’ve got some dry spots at the ends. Would you mind if I cut a few inches?”

It wasn’t as if a few inches was the river between me and beautiful.

“Of course. Do what you wish.”

Minutes later, Eliza beckoned me to look. She’d rolled and braided my dense black curls into a work of art that almost took away from the ridged mark on my face.

“Thank you.” I attempted to show her a decent amount of enthusiasm for her effort, but my tone fell flat in delivering.

“Here.” She passed a burgundy cloak to me from the wardrobe. I took it, letting the fabric caress my shoulders and give me the protection I desired. It was more a matter of modesty than warmth. It offered me a sense of protection. Just for added warmth, I put on a black open cardigan underneath.

“I won’t be long. I will be afraid of getting lost.”

“Take your time. We will keep breakfast ready.”

Words I’d never heard before.

After a quick hello to the staff who were diligent for such an early hour, I snuck out the back door. For a moment, I was content with the scene before me. Long gone was the spooky pond that seemed to hold secrets of its own. In its place was a scene straight out of a Jane Austen novel. The still water now beckoned. The boats didn’t seem ghost-infested—simply lonely. Another look across the property revealed an expanse I wouldn’t have ever seen in the pitch black of night. Though the gardens were now bare, in my mind’s eye, I could imagine what they’d once looked like, fresh and alive with promise. Now they matched the rest of the estate, a self-telling tale of splendor that once was.

No matter how dreary the place seemed, the birds didn’t care. The swamp sparrows could be heard singing their good mornings and an egret’s wings flapped in the distance.

Just as I’d resigned myself to waiting for a tour from Porter, a horse’s neigh drew my attention. I walked off of the back porch and down the steps, headed in the direction of the sound. A song rose from the worn down barn, its baritone comfort caused shivers down my spine as I approached.

“Who is there?” I called out, wanting to meet the owner of such a voice.

I got closer and closer. As I did the song seemed to digress into a solemn cry for pity. It beckoned me like a siren.

“Hello?” I repeated my inquiry, hoping not to have to go into the horse stables with my new clothing and boots on. Porter had gone to a lot of trouble to get me those clothes and I intended on cherishing them.

“Who is it?” The once soulful bellowing now barked at me.

“I am Delilah, Porter’s wife.” I tested my tongue with my teeth after saying such a thing aloud.

“Hold on.” More barking.

I pulled the cloak tighter around myself, the humidity now turning the air colder even with the morning sun coming into her own.

Porter had spoken of a stable boy, but the bass that boasted from the inside of the decrepit barn sounded like no boy I’d ever know. It was more like caramel wrapped in warm honey that reverberated through my chest.

While I waited for the stranger to make his appearance, the wind echoed through the trees. If I didn’t know better, I would think they were whispering secrets to one another in haste.

“I didn’t know I was singing for an audience. I would’ve practiced harder.”

I gasped at the nearness of the voice and to whom it was attached. His breath could be felt on my neck and the warmth caused a shiver to ripple down my back and come to a dead end in my toes. I tucked the shawl around my knuckles and gripped it tight, hoping it would magically turn to steel and form a solid barrier between me and this thief of breath. A necklace hung around his neck and the locket at the bottom of it hung out of his shirt where he’d neglected to button it. As soon as he caught me looking at it, he stuffed it back into his shirt with haste and tended to the forgotten buttons.

In his hands, he dangled a handwritten list of things to get done, one that had nothing crossed off.

“Who—who are you?” I stammered out. The cold of the morning turned my words to tiny clouds that puffed out before me.

“Forgive my manners,” the boy, clad in brown pants and a khaki shirt only halfway tucked beneath worn suspenders said. “I’m Rebel. You must be Porter’s new wife.” I didn’t answer quickly enough for him and so he continued. “No? Another servant like me? It is certainly my lucky day.” With the word lucky, he took the opportunity to close in one more step toward me, but I took the same opportunity to recover the space between us with my own step back.

“I am Porter’s wife.”

He smiled. The corners of his mouth spread so wide that I thought maybe they’d touch his earlobes with little help. “Is that your name then? Porter’s wife.” What was once a polite tone, turned snide and irritated. A fish bubbled the surface of the pond in the distance, but with my senses on high alert, I heard it loud and clear.

“My name is Delilah.”

There was no reply to my sudden firm stance. His left eyebrow pulsed a little at my name but that was the only indication that he’d heard me at all.

“Delilah, huh?” His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. “Well, just so you know, no matter how…” his eyes roamed my form, never halting until they were once again on my face. “…lovely you are or how much you charm me—I’ll never tell you the source of my power. Not even for a touch of those luscious lips.”

My legs threatened to topple. Rebel’s words wove around my core. Curiosity flourished in my veins and though my conscience pulled me away, I stayed, my eyes fixed on his. By mistake, I looked down at his lips, rounded and perfect, and saw the sheen of sweat marked the top.

“What’s a flit like you wandering around for? Has Porter decided to loosen the leash already?”

Through the experiences of my life, I’d learned to be slow to offense. I was the last one to be stricken by insult—until now. I’d been called a myriad of hellacious names in my short life, but a leashed beast was not one I’d ever been called by my worst enemy.

Without another word to the horrid male, I turned around and set off on a path toward the house. I chastised myself the entire way back for not waiting for Porter to accompany me. Only seconds in the presence of that man and a thousand worms crawled across my skin; at the same time I felt like a harlot. Though I didn’t care for his directness, there was something so forward about the way he stated his intentions. There were no secrets or masks of gentlemanly virtue.

The plain intrigue he’d stirred made me look back to the barn more than once only to find Rebel, hands on hips, staring after me.

The knowledge that he was looking at me with such ardent fervor made me quicken my steps. Before I knew it, I was back inside the safety of my new home with furniture and food beyond my means. Even the cypress flooring I stood upon was better than my station.

“Delilah, that wasn’t much of a walk. Oh, dear, you look flushed. Is everything okay?”

I took a breath, purposefully removing my shawl at a snail’s pace to collect myself. My mind told me I’d overreacted to Rebel’s presence. It couldn’t be helped. There was an air of knowing about him that slithered over my skin—and intrigued me more than I was willing to admit.

“Yes. I took a turn that led me around by the barn. Then, I was lost for a moment. The stable boy pointed me back home.”

What a fragile lie. Not only was the lie a complete shamble, but it made me sound like a pathetic twit—getting lost when this house was big enough to be seen for at least a half a mile.

“Hmmmm, next time, Porter will be around. Maybe it’s best if he accompanies you from now on.”

While she spoke, she seemed to be scanning my face and neck for evidence of something. With that boy’s voice, the one that crawled along my skin like molasses, she was probably checking for hickeys.

My sister had returned home one night with hickeys when she was supposed to have been going to tutoring.

My mother had congratulated her.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“But,” she threaded her arm through my elbow and pulled me along, “I bet it was enough to rustle up your hunger.” There was no real question, but I nodded in response, anyway. This woman’s insatiable appetite seemed to be the revolving theme of the day—everyday. “We usually have breakfast in the kitchen. It’s easier for clean-up and Porter only ever has coffee. Anyway, June likes the way the sunlight comes in through the bay window. If we keep the help happy, we don’t have to worry about spittle in our soup.”

She laughed as I suppressed a gag. I made a mental note not to ever eat soup again unless I’d watched it be prepared.