Tainted, part two

[ladyofthesea]

Stupid LJ and its limitations. XD

As the carriage ambled ever closer to town, I could scarcely take my eyes from it. To think I had once seen these streets nearly every day all those years ago, and am only now just returning for a visit! Oh, so many familiar faces happened by, smiling in delight at recognizing me. I alerted the driver and requested to be let out just outside town. I wanted to walk this street once again at my own pace.

“I'll return for you by sundown,” the driver said as I stepped down. For a moment I regretted having to leave, but I refused to let Lady Hampton's image dampen my visit. I responded with a gracious thank you and strode off. I did not see the carriage go past, for my eyes were well and truly fixed on the sights.

Neighbors were about doing their errands, automatically ceased upon seeing me. “Kitty! It's Kitty Chandler!” they exclaimed, flurrying about as if I were the queen herself come to visit a country town. I relished the attention, the questions implored me about my well being, my mother, how grand Lady Hampton's manor was, the wages. Nearly all of them inquired about when we would be returning home, to which I would say, “When Mother has finished her newest patterns,” even though I was not certain it was the truth.

Old Mrs. Pole, Reginald's mother, took it upon herself to act as my companion, filling my ears with the latest town news: weddings, deaths, births, those who moved in, those who moved out. I was overjoyed to learn Reginald's wife had safely delivered their fourth child- “They say Maria is of fertile stock, but I know it is all my Reggie,” Mrs. Pole stated with unashamed pride- and gladdened they had firmly established themselves in my parents' old home. I would have to set aside time to visit.

I also admit to relishing a certain pleasure in learning Mr. Johnson was forced to sell not only his share of my father's shop, but his own due to gambling problems.

“A most dreadful end,” Mrs. Pole declared with a shudder. “And we ladies forced to buy cloth, thread and pins right out of Mrs. Tilly's kitchen as if we were servants come to fetch a cup of sugar!”

I smiled. “Most dreadful indeed,” I agreed, knowing full well that Lady Hampton would hardly deign to redirect her shopping needs in such an event. When I told Mrs. Pole my lady would have probably squared away Mr. Johnson's debts so long as she did not have to trouble herself with finding another shop, she laughed merrily.

“Oh, what a wit you are, Kitty! Speaking so ill of your mother's employer,” she chided, though there was no disappointment in her voice. “I have seen your ladyship come to town on a few occasions; how Mrs. Chandler endures such a temperament is beyond my ability to comprehend. She is a saint come to earth, surely.”

Not a saint. A Valkyrie, I thought with a sudden burst of pride. “Would you care to help me select a gift for Mother? She's kept so busy she rarely has the opportunity to visit for herself.”

“I do hope she finds the opportunity,” Mrs. Pole said with a smile and lifted chin. “If not for her, my Reggie would not have found footing in our town. She must be granted the honor of our thanks.”

“I'll mention it to her. I'm sure she would enjoy pleasant company these days,” I said, thinking again of prickly Lady Hampton and her one-sided, self-serving conversations. Mrs. Pole smiled, linked her arm with mine, and we sauntered off.

As we called on friends and shops, I could not help but notice many a young man's eye fixed on me. I smiled, curtsied to each and every one, even those I did not recognize. There was a certain joy to be had to be admired and welcomed so, after so many years of being treated as so much furniture. The more young men I spoke to the more I understood Mother's insistence on living my own life. I own it, I was caught up in the fancy of being a wife and mother, of having the freedom to flit about town like I used to, to make calls to newcomers, friends, attend socials, weddings, to shop, gossip and laugh. All these things my mother should have been doing, instead of working herself to the bone.

“And you say this dress was done by your own hand?” questioned Mrs. Tilly, who counted herself among the clerks in the new general store, erected where Mr. Johnson's once stood. When I nodded she beamed. She was a short, rotund old woman with tight, baby doll curls dangling at her brow. I had always found her to be of cute demeanor. “Why has Lady Hampton not accepted you into her employ? Surely you can please her as readily as your mother.”

“It is with regret that Lady Hampton sees me as no more than another of her servants, a faceless non entity she can order around or ignore at her leisure,” I reported, and received a chorus of shocked gasps.

“Well, I say you dash her generosity to the ground and hasten your return to town,” declared Mrs. Williams, the feather atop her hat quivering with shared insult. “A woman like that should consider the gifts she has found in you and your skills. Why, I would hire you this instant! My Marianne's complete lack of sewing skills has forever been a headache to me.”

“I would call upon your talents too,” added another lady. “Just look at your dress! I would say it comes direct from Paris itself had I not known its true origin.”

More praise and demand sounded, making me blush. The admiration also spurned an idea to mind, one I had unconsciously been debating and needed this moment to decide upon. There was no reason whatsoever to prevent me from assuming Mother's talents. She was in dire need of rest and peace. I could endure Lady Hampton, if for no other reason than I must.

Taking our leave of the ladies in the shop, Mrs. Pole and I resumed our ramble, only to part ways at the post some hours later. She was bright eyed and cheery as she handed off the wrapped packages she had selected for Mother. “Do come visit more often, dear Kitty. It does us all good to see our own returned to us.”

I longed to embrace her, had to make do with a deep curtsy. Upon accepting the gifts she smiled at me once more, then went about her way. I ventured inside the post to greet and chat with the clerk before I questioned about any letters for my mother. To my shame, I saw a great many bundled in twine, all from Hilda. Tears I could not suppress formed in my eyes as I weighed the collection of letters in my palm. The years spent sequestered in that manor, apart from the rest of the world, settled upon me like a heavy shroud. What Hilda must have thought to have sent so many, and to receive none in return in all these years!

My sorrow soon came to a standstill, for written on the exterior of these letters was Lady Hampton's own address. Awareness dawned on me, inspiring my anger. “Why were these not delivered?” I asked.

The clerk shook his head sorrowfully. “They were all returned and with no explanation as to the cause. I feared the address was incorrect, so I held onto them in the event that Mrs. Chandler would come into town to collect them.”

Somehow I was able to control my anger. “I assure you, sir, these letters are marked accordingly. As for the explanation concerning their return, I believe I know the cause.” I bowed my head in gratitude. “I thank you for setting these aside. Letters from home will enliven my mother's day, I am sure of it.”

He smiled, somewhat shyly I observed. He looked no older than I, a mop of unruly dark hair crowning his head, as gawky as a little boy. “It was my pleasure, Miss Chandler. You will be back in town from time to time? The post is delivered every day.”

I recognized the hope in his tone, could not help but be pleased by it, and his wish to see me again. It was quite good to be acknowledged. “I am going to ensure it. Thank you again.”

I found Lady Hampton's carriage waiting for me across the street. At seeing it I scowled, but briefly. It would not do to alert the driver, so I bestowed him with many a smile and exclamation concerning my busy day. He nodded politely, smiled and gestured I enter. It wasn't until the door had been shut behind me, and the carriage jolted forward, that my smiles vanished. I stared down at the wrapped letters, nestled among the packages lovingly purchased and wrapped by the ladies of the town. Lady Hampton had much to answer for.

***

Mother was dozing in her chair, a gathering of cloth on her lap, when I entered our room. She had just opened her eyes when I announced, “Mother, Lady Hampton has wronged us both.”

“Kitty? What is the source of this declaration?” She studied my face. “Did something happen in town?”

“It most certainly did,” I replied, and wasted no time in revealing all I had seen and learned. I saw her face brighten, then darken during the course of my tale. When I had finished I presented the letters to her, barely able to control my mood. “To think, all these years Hilda had written you and not a single one made it here. Such conduct should not go unnoticed.”

Mother's hand trembled as she snipped at the twine surrounding the letters. She lifted the top most one, ran her fingers across the surface. “Kitty,” she said, and I heard the emotion in her voice, the weariness, which immediately sobered me. “Fetch me some tea, won't you? I should very much like to read these letters.”

Mother spent much of the evening reading those letters. I changed out of my dress and into an older one to start work on the dresses. Mother was so involved in reading she did not notice I had done so. I kept one eye on her as I cut, stitched, and affixed parts together. The candle at her table steadily grew smaller, smaller, until its flame was nearly lost among melted wax. She simply lit another, and continued to read. The packages Mrs. Pole intended for her remained untouched on the bed.

I had just finished hemming a gown when I heard Mother lay the last letter down. I turned round, eager for news. She stared up at me, her eyes liquid with grief. “Hilda has passed on from this life to await us,” she murmured.

At once my eyes filled with tears, my mind with memories wrapped in nettled fondness. “When?”

“Just this past winter.” Mother reached for a discarded scrap of cloth, dabbed at her eyes. Her hand shook like the bough of a tree in a windstorm. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Dearest Hilda,” she whispered, and said no more. I approached her, wrapped my arm around her shoulders. When she leaned against me I was shocked by how frail she seemed. Even her sobbing sounded frail. It was as if summoning the energy to cry was beyond her. I let her weep, tears of my own trailing down my cheeks as I thought of poor Hilda dying in her bed, not knowing if Mother or I were well and consumed by grief because of it.

Mother made no protest when I encouraged her into bed. Her refusal to do so should have alarmed me, but in truth I was glad. She already looked overtaxed; sleep was the best thing for her now. Once she was secured beneath the covers I sat on the edge of the bed, once again counting every breath. I did not sleep that night.

***

The next morning Lady Hampton strode in, as was her wont. “Mrs. Chandler! I have received the very latest patterns. I require a dress made from them straightaway. I-” she paused at seeing me sitting in Mother's chair, a sewing basket at my feet, needle in hand. I met her disappointed stare, nodded cordially to her. She responded with, “Oh, Kitty. Where is your mother? I must speak with her.”

“Mother is resting,” I replied. “Let me see the patterns, my lady. I am sure I can create something for you.”

Lady Hampton looked quite dubious about that. “No, no,” she said, dismissing me with a wave of the hand. “This simply won't do. I cannot have my seamstress lazing about when I am in such dire need. Mrs. Chandler!” she called, raising her voice. She swept past me in a huff, her skirts rustling.

I rose from the chair. “Lady Hampton, please!” I implored her, but she ignored me.

“Mrs. Chandler!” she bellowed. “I must speak with you. Come to me at once.”

“My mother is resting!” I repeated, unable to control the tempo of my voice. Lady Hampton heard, turned astonished eyes to me. “I say again, let me see the patterns. I can sew as well as she; let me do this for you.”

“You are not in my employ,” she retorted. “And soon Mrs. Chandler will not be if she does not answer my summons straightaway.”

Oh, how I longed for Mother to remain behind that closed door if only to end ten years of solitude. But at hearing the door open, and seeing my mother, fully dressed and head upright, my hopes were dashed. Lady Hampton spun round, exhaled in relief at seeing her. “It is about time you showed yourself to me,” she snapped.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Mother said in no more than a whisper. I saw her holding fast to the door frame. It seemed the only thing keeping her upright. “I had asked Kitty to tend to the gown while I finished dressing.”

“I care not what the delay was, so long as you are available now,” Lady Hampton said, and launched into an excited description of what she wanted. I busied myself by straightening the room, unable to keep from watching Mother's face during Lady Hampton's emphatic telling. Though she gave the proper responses, she had not moved from the doorway. When Lady Hampton thrust the patterns into her hand, I saw her fingers tighten on the papers as if her very life depended upon them.

“That about details it all,” Lady Hampton said at last. She was smiling broadly, completely and utterly unaware that Mother looked near to passing out. “Since I want all your attention to be fixed on this I shall not impose upon you.”

For one wonderful moment I thought she referred to the other gowns Mother was slowly but steadily working on. My hopes were dashed, as I should have expected, when Lady Hampton stated, “It pains me to do so, but I shall take tea today, and all the rest of the days, without you. You will be free to work.”

It seemed it took every ounce of strength Mother had left to smile. “Your ladyship is most kind.” Her voice, still no more than a whisper, and possessing as much strength as a small child's. My hands clenched, unseen, beneath the bolt of cloth I held. If Lady Hampton did not take her leave of us I feared I would have done and said something quite rude.

After some last minute fretting over details, Lady Hampton was at last satisfied. “I shall send Lucy to check upon you over the course of the day,” she announced, and I understood her intentions was not for Mother's welfare but the state of the dresses. When she turned for the door Mother and I both dropped a curtsy. I was never so glad to see a closed door as I was then. Spinning round, I said, “Mother, let me-” only to have the words die in my throat.

She lay in the doorway, the patterns scattered all around her. I sprinted to her side, not caring where the bolt of cloth landed. Her collapse must have been either so sudden or so silent that I had not been aware of it. “Mother!” I called frantically. I touched her arm, her brow, only to draw back in terror. She was very warm to the touch, and shivering as if in the middle of a snowstorm. “Mother!” I repeated, the knot of fear threatening to overcome my heart loosening when she murmured my name.

Tears distorted my vision as I assisted her to her feet. She leaned heavily against me, trembling so much I thought her bones would dislodge. I set her on her favorite chair. “Let me bring you a blanket and something warm to drink.”

Mother's eyes were red-rimmed, weary, as she shook her head. “I am all right, Kitty. Let me catch my breath.”

I knew what she experienced was far more than a simple loss of breath, but the way she gazed upon me- almost pleadingly- stilled my words. I pressed her hand in silent acknowledgment, then set off to fetch some tea. When I returned I found her slumped in the chair, completely unresponsive. Panic saw fit to keep me grounded long enough to summon help, answer whatever questions the doctor had. I remained outside her room, attempting to distract myself with a bit of sewing. Yet every pull of the needle seemed to echo the ticking of the clock, my thudding heartbeat. I kept my gaze fixed on the doorway to Mother's chamber, hardly feeling it when I pricked my finger.

Lady Hampton arrived to sit with me in silent vigil. She stroked the dozing Stuart, her cup of tea untouched. Lucy stood by, watching her mistress with a nervous eye, and me with a sympathetic one. Only the echo of the ticking clock resonated in the room. I felt time had been suspended despite this physical representation of its passing.

Some hours had passed before the doctor emerged at last. I sprang to my feet before Lady Hampton did, and in my haste did not make my bow to the doctor. “Sir? Pray tell me of my mother's condition.”

His face was heavy with distress. “Her condition is troublesome, Miss Chandler,” he said sadly. “I have done all I can for her, but now she must let rest and reprieve see to her welfare.”

“And how long will this keep her?” Lady Hampton asked, sounding quite vexed at this circumstance. I was so troubled by Mother's diagnosis I could not summon the words necessary to defend her.

“I cannot say, my lady,” he replied cordially. “A few days, weeks, months.”

“Months!” Lady Hampton grasped the only thing that mattered most. “Why, I simply cannot have my seamstress laid up for so long. Surely there is something in your keeping that will revive her.”

I could see the briefest flash of irritation in his eyes, but his voice betrayed none of this. “I have already given her something that I hope to hasten her revival. But rest is the best solution I can provide for her.”

“Then I suggest another,” she told him, chin lifting. “I have appointments to which I am firmly committed. All hinges upon my seamstress' capability to conclude the order I have given her. She does not have the time to lay about.”

“My lady,” the doctor replied, and this time I heard the irritation surface in his voice. “I must be frank with you. Mrs. Chandler's body is very frail. She has taxed it to its ultimate capacity. If she does not rest she will not survive. That will certainly find your ladyship in more dire straights than that you have already taken oath to.”

Only a respected professional could have said such a truthful statement to a woman of Lady Hampton's stature and not received comeuppance for it. She knew it as well, for all she could do was purse her lips and give a stiff nod. “I see,” she said, with admirable control. “Well, then she shall be granted the rest you have prescribed.” With one last look at him, she swept out of the room, Lucy trailing after her. Our eyes met, briefly, before she slipped out.

“Doctor,” I ventured, choosing my words carefully. He turned to me. “Is that true, what you said? About her survival?”

At once I saw his eyes soften with sympathy. “I fear it is so, Miss Chandler. Stout of heart and spirit she may be, but her body has surrendered to the toils of this mortal world.”

My throat tightened, my eyes watered. I could sense the changes in the air as surely as a doe scents a predator. The floor seemed to give way beneath my feet. “What shall I do?”

He searched my eyes. “Pray,” was his somber answer. “For she is in God's hands now.”

After the doctor had gone I ventured into Mother's chamber. Few candles were lit, the curtains were drawn. A potent aroma permeated the air- the smell of sickness. The sight of her, concealed beneath every bed cover Lucy could come across, checked me at the door. A vision of my father came to the forefront of my mind, but instead of finding her sitting at his side, I would soon assume the role of caretaker. As I strode in I tried not to think that this was the prelude to the end. I simply could not.

I sat on the small stool Mother used to rest her feet while she worked. She was so white of face she seemed a doll lost amidst all the bed covers. Every breath was raspy, short. I reached out to touch her brow as tears trailed down my cheeks. She stirred then, turned her head and slowly opened her eyes.

At seeing me a wan smile tugged at her lips. “Kitty...” she whispered in no voice at all.

“I'm here with you, Mother,” I said, wanting so much to keep the sorrow from my voice but unable to. I was haunted by the inexplicable sense that yes, this was a prelude to the end. “The doctor says you must rest, or you won't recover your strength.”

“My dear,” she murmured, and I saw her eyes glisten with tears. “My dearest Kitty...twilight is upon me.”

“Twilight? It's just midday,” I said, forcing myself to be cheerful, ignorant, of what she referred to.

Slowly, so slowly, she unearthed her hand to grasp mine. I could not prevent the sharp intake of breath at how...bony it seemed, and quite suddenly.

Mother took a deep breath. “Do not be sad, Kitty.” Her smile widened, just a bit. Tears slid down her cheeks. “For I am an earthbound Valkyrie summoned to the halls of Asgard.”
Her tone turned dreamy, wistful. “When I next open my eyes, I shall be lying on a field of wildflowers on the Plains of Ida. I will see your brothers and sisters, and your father...why, they must be preparing to welcome me right now...”

I gripped her hand, selfishly refusing to relinquish my hold on her, on this earth. “Please, Mother. Rest and be well. Stay with me.”

Again that faint smile. “I will stay with you for always, Kitty, my dear Kitty, for when I am gone, my spirit will be with yours. A Valkyrie's strength is her spirit, you remember? It is what shapes her, enables her to thrive no matter what circumstances are laid before her. Thrive,” she repeated, her eyelids growing heavy. “Let my spirit aid you. Let Balder's light shine from your smiles, always...”

As she drifted off into sleep I buried my head upon my arm. Tears dampened my sleeve. Oh, Mother...how shall I thrive without you?

***

Mother valiantly held on for another week when, one chilly morning in October, 1843, she succumbed. The doctor, Lady Hampton and I were on hand to see her off. Lucy wept into her apron, though her sorrow was not as noisy or overdone as Lady Hampton's. She sobbed as if my mother were her dearest friend. I knew better. She was distraught at the unfinished line of clothing. I was dry eyed as I smoothed her brow, touched her hand.

Still, she saw to it that Mother was given every honor. Her funeral procession was that of a lady as well, and it heartened me to see the whole of the town turn out to witness it. Once again I found myself walking behind a carriage containing the earthly remains of a loved one, only this time I was alone. The chilly wind whipped at my face, turning my tears to ice. I felt carved of ice. I saw the faces around me, fraught with emotion, could not summon the energy to express it myself. The necklace containing my grandparents' portrait weighed heavily around my neck.

The world had taken on shades of gray. Perhaps it was the season, or my own sorrow that colored my perceptions so. To mourn entails reflection upon what has been lost, to allow the sadness to lift from one's heart, before carrying on. I longed to do this, to rise up like a Valkyrie at hearing the horn to battle. Rise I did, though all my thoughts and actions were unconscious recollections of every day matters: sleeping, bathing, dressing, eating. These I did without fail, but at night, the feelings I kept at bay overcame me. I wept until I swore I had shed every tear imaginable. I missed my mother dreadfully. Everywhere I looked I saw her image pass through our small room, ghost-like. At night I heard her whisper to me, and each time I awoke, expecting her to be there with a smile, I was greeted with only empty air. Sorrow had taken firm root in my heart and mind. I could not find my joy. And circumstances were to become much, much worse for me.

“I must leave?” I echoed blankly.

Lady Hampton sat across from me in her parlor, as well dressed and imperious as ever. While I credit her for her masterful display of regret, the expression was ill suited to her face, made all the more so due to its falsehood. “It is with great sorrow that I have come to this decision, Kitty,” she said, as kindly as an old witch. “But you were not in my employ as your mother was, God rest her soul,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “And I have given you ample time to consider your circumstances.”

“It has only been a fortnight,” I pointed out quietly. Though I said the words, the length of time in truth felt much, much longer.

“As I said, ample time,” she said with a nod. “I must ask you to act upon your newfound independence.”

“I have nowhere to go,” I replied, my eyes downcast. I stared at my reflection in my teacup, seeing the face of a sorrowing girl trying very hard to keep her composure. “Might you consider accepting me in your employ? In place of my mother?”

“Dear girl, I wouldn't dream of it,” she answered forthrightly, and I could not keep from wincing. “Your mother had a great talent for dress making, and I am quite sure she instructed you to the best of her abilities. However, yours is a poor talent in comparison to Mrs. Chandler's; to secure your services would be a discredit to both of us.”

I felt myself sink lower and lower into the floor with each scathing word. My reflection rippled, once, twice, as tears dripped past my nose.

Lady Hampton seemed to take my silence as an agreement. “You are young, you have connections in town,” she said, as poor attempt a soothing as I had ever heard one. Low as I was, I did not have the heart to contradict her. “What say you to lending you use of Lucy for the day? She can help arrange for your departure. The girl is a fool but an able one. I will even allow you use of my carriage.”

I lifted my head, forced a smile as if this were the grandest gesture I had ever been given. Lady Hampton smiled, immensely pleased with her benevolence, and summoned Lucy. When she was given her orders we exchanged glances. I saw concern and understanding, true, but also, very briefly, the relief that she was not to find herself packed up with me.

Lucy and I worked diligently together, though with a certain amount of haste. I could not dispel the sense that she was eager to be finished with me, for no doubt she was needed elsewhere. Or her position as lady's maid had given her an elevated sense of self worth she deemed it unworthy to be loaned to one such as myself. It was this feeling that made me glad we spoke of nothing but our joint duties. While she went to work on collecting all the scattered material, sewing baskets and other items Lady Hampton had given my mother, I took charge of Mother's room. There were few things to be packed up here, but for the personal effects Hilda had secured for us when we first arrived: the silver that had belonged to Mother's parents, a small ship inside a bottle crafted by my uncle, dead long before I was born, six little shoes with initials sewn into them. Locks of hair had been stowed inside five of them, a sad tribute to my brothers and sisters. The sixth contained only a small piece of paper inscribed with my birth date, and the phrase, “My Kitty Cat,” written in my mother's hand.

I lifted the paper out of the shoe and pressed it to my lips. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Oh, Mother. I wish you were still here. I wish we had never left our home.

With the majority of the room packed up save some candles and the pallet- I refused to sleep in the bed my mother had died in- I expected to spend a quiet evening in reflection, perhaps even devise a way out of my predicament. Lady Hampton, it seemed, felt justified in the time allotted me and, shortly before I was to retire, announced that the room needed to be completely emptied by week's end- and not just of furniture. Of me as well. No sooner had the door closed behind her did I go to my mother's bed, kneel at its foot and sob.

***

Of all the years I spent at that house, wishing my mother and I to be free of it and its mistress, never had I wanted time to slow more than my final week. Indeed, the weather seemed to echo what was in my heart, for never were there grayer skies. Thick clouds obscured the sun and sky to such a point I doubted I'd ever see them again.

It rained, as it was wont to do in times of distress, the day I was to bid this house and its memories farewell. Albert escorted me to the front door. I admit to having expected more than the required courtesy of a servant of this household from him, for he had always been so kind to Mother and I. The arrival of a second carriage otherwise diverted him; he had just secured my single bag when the door opened, and an ostentatiously dressed woman emerged. At first I believed her to be some guest of Lady Hampton's, a relative or neighbor, when the inclusion of two maidservants, both loaded down with bolts of cloth, identified her as my mother's replacement. Lady Hampton herself was on hand to greet her with warm smiles and sweet words. I watched their interaction until it became too much. I turned my head to the opposite wall of the carriage, forced to grip the seat when the driver signaled the horse to move. My vision blurred as I toyed with the necklace at my throat.

The countryside that had once enchanted me during my last visit to town was shrouded in gray, slick with rain and mud. The carriage lurched to and fro as the horse struggled to drag it through the more mired sections. I sat as far from the windows as I could; though closed, I still was struck with chill wind. Rain splattered onto the glass, sounding like so many pebbles being thrown about. I burrowed deeper into my shawl, and found myself quite miserable.

Rain had kept most of the town indoors this day, so there were none to greet me as I disembarked. When the carriage rolled away, I was left standing in front of the depot, shivering, damp and uncertain as to what I was to do now. As I stared at the deserted streets, I felt not that I was come home, but I was about to tread down an unknown path, one so dark I could not see the end. I lifted my head to the sky; as I did so, wind blasted me in the face. Whether it was tears or rain that wet my face, I cannot say.

***

The Parlor, post mortem...

The doorway had long since vanished, taking with it the horrors that lay beyond. Still I stood there, halfway convinced that if I waited long enough, it would return and enable me to quit this dream straightaway. I yearned for it to happen, to see Thomas' face, hear his voice, feel his arms about me as I told him of these nighttime terrors.

My escort seemed to know I was reluctant to leave. There was again that raspy sound, followed by the creaking of an old tree bough. I glanced over, seeing that it gestured at another doorway down the hall. “There?” I ventured, my voice no more than a tremulous whisper.

The cowled head nodded, rasped once more.

I was curiously reluctant to leave, a feeling not born from want to wait on a door that would never return, but a fear of discovering what lay beyond that other one. Had I the choice, I would have gladly stayed right where I was. I had the knowledge of what this space meant to comfort me. Moving would also draw my attention to my shift, which I knew was covered in the blood from my lost child. The vision of myself writhing in bed brought forth great sorrow, and though I was heavy with it, I could not seem to remember how to cry. So the feeling remained, present but untouchable. It distressed me greatly. Why couldn't I weep?

The figure, apparently having concluded its business with me, turned away. “Wait,” I called after it. Anguish thickened my voice and wits. “Where am I? What am I to do?”

There was no answer, for it had vanished in a swirl of gray mist. I was left staring after it, wide-eyed and frightened as when I had been standing by the depot that rainy day. And like then, my mind seemed only capable of focusing on one thought and one only: I was alone.

Unwillingly yet unable to do much else, I trudged on, memories trailing after me like ghosts. They circled my mind, one after the other, inspiring great joy and intense sadness all at the same moment. These feelings left me quite breathless- it was as if I had spent my entire life dimly aware of emotion only to discover their true power. I could not recall feeling quite like this, not even after my mother died. It frustrated me, but not nearly so much as my need to weep. The sensation lingered, like the tickle in the nose preceding a sneeze: present yet unattainable.

The hall became darker as I drew nearer the solitary door. At the first I believed the light would be snuffed out like a candle; I was soon heartened to discover the darkening sensation was a result of the walls changing color, and thought it must be a grim situation indeed to find comfort in such phenomena.

The walls, now coated in shining mahogany, resembled a drawing room not unlike my father's. Voices echoed from the room beyond. I could not be certain if I heard my name or not. The feeling was there, however.

Suddenly a glimmer of light swept in front of me. At identifying a figure in white, the face unmistakable, I started. Mother! When she passed through the door I went after her without hesitation. My hand grasped the knob, twisted it. The door opened with very little effort from me, flooding the room, and I, with bright light. My eyes stung, though I shed no tears.

The light receded, pulling back like a white curtain to reveal another room. Its furnishings were unlike any I had ever seen before. Chairs, couches, even benches, all of different styles, were arranged around an elevated desk. Papers and overturned, empty inkwells crowded its base, which was nearly concealed by stacks of ledgers. Even more rose up to either side, thick tomes that, somehow, had the capability to pass through the ceiling. I stared, unable to conceive how such a thing was engineered.

I raked my gaze over the few others sitting there, my disappointment growing. Had Mother been an illusion?

At feeling something brushing against the hem of my shift I started, glanced down. The ill-tempered boy stood at my shoulder, a bucket of water at his feet and a broom propped on his shoulder. The stiff bristles jabbed me like fingernails, and I stepped back. He watched my retreat from beneath the brim of a black cap, his interest so great that I became increasingly aware of my state of dress. I dropped a quick curtsy, turned and made for the nearest chair.

“I wouldn't sit there if I was you,” the boy remarked, drawing me up short.

“Why?”

I heard the bucket scrape across the floor as he approached me. “Cause it won't let you.”

“What?” I said, glancing, briefly, over my shoulder.

He smiled, the expression closer to amusement than concern. “Try it,” he suggested. When I hesitated he gestured. “Go on, lady. You'll see what I mean.”

Slightly put off by his manner, I confessed to bearing curiosity about what he referred to, and eased into the chair. The instant I did it bucked like a wild animal, launching me to the floor in a most undignified manner.

The boy laughed uproariously. “You knew that would happen,” I said, shaken and embarrassed.

“Naw, I didn't,” he replied, not a whit of apology in his voice. “I told you to try to sit down. Not my fault you're not good enough to sit there. Aw, come on,” he went on when I refused his proffered hand. “I'm not going to bite ya. I'm going to bring you to a chair you can sit on.”

I rose to my feet, wishing I had the imperious manners of Lady Hampton to dismiss this child. But I only said, “You don't have to trouble yourself. I am sure I will be fine.”

Still his hand had not wavered. “Doesn't look like that to me,” he observed impertinently.

I was stricken silent. He waited, as hopeful as a dog suddenly scenting a generous spirit. I was of no mind to grant him clemency; with a polite nod and thank you, I strode away in search of another place to sit. Everything about this place and its people unsettled me. I wanted nothing more than to wake from this dream that wasn't a dream.

The boy went about cleaning the room, the swift strokes of his broom unusually loud. The few others present were content to remain lost within their own minds. I envied them the ability to do so; my mind was flooded with dozens of burning questions I hadn't the courage to ask. I had never been very forward, not even in matters that demanded a response.

Thomas had recognized that in me from the start. “My gentle lady,” he would whisper with a smile.

The sound of a door being thrown open startled me so I gasped. Glancing ahead, I saw the source of such a noisy entry- a short, white-haired woman clad in what looked like sheets tied to form a gown- shuffle toward the elevated desk, a ledger clasped tightly to her breast. She was a most haggard thing to behold, a witch from the old days. She ascended each step with a loud grunt, more snort-like, before dropping the tome upon the desk. Its echo resonated like booming thunder. As before, only I seemed affected by her arrival. The others were as still as statues, and just as life like.

A tap on the desk, followed by the creak associated with the opening of an old book. From my seat, I could only see the very top of the woman's hair, wiry strands trembling as she adjusted herself on the seat. “Many new arrivals today,” she muttered to no one in particular. I saw her dip a quill into an inkwell, poise it over the ledger. She began sounding off names, and one by one each of the waiting strangers approached the desk. Though I was sitting very near, their conferences went unheard, as if something muffled them somehow. It was quite bizarre- but not as much as upon the conclusion of each meeting, a doorway manifested on the wall. As each opened I beheld another man or woman waiting there, briefly, before they, and the doorway, faded from sight.

“Caine, Catherine,” the old woman rasped, making another mark upon her ledger. I could not help but notice the brief look of shock enter her gaze as I rose to meet her. “You?”

“Yes,” I replied, wringing my hands together. Just past the desk, I could see the boy leaning against his broom, head resting on his chin. “Please, can you tell me where I am?”

The woman clicked her tongue as she looked through leafs of paper. “Hmm. So I see. Yes,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Dreadful. Simply dreadful.”

“Pardon me?” I said, utterly confused. She laid page after page aside as I said, “What is this place?”

“I ask the questions,” she retorted, as strict as any tutor, and I subsided. The quill tapped in rapid succession on the paper. “Who is your god?”

“God?” I echoed, the question so strange I could only think to repeat what she said.

At once her expression turned exasperated. “Another one. There's been an influx of you lately, and the waiting list has become quite ridiculous. It simply won't do.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, and was ignored.

She drew another book from one of the piles towering beside her. Opening it, she quickly scanned the pages and nodded. “Just as I hoped: he has placed a request with this office. Hmm, terms have not been disclosed. Well, he must have every intention of keeping one for a long while. That suits just fine. Catherine Caine,” she said to me, and I came to attention, for a lesson, a sentence, I know not. There was something final about the way she spoke to me that indicated our meeting was about to conclude.

“Before I can send you on your way, you must meet with him.” She gestured.

The heavy sound of an opening door echoed behind me. When I turned I was treated to a most frightening sight: a pair of tall, stone doors stood open, a gust of chill wind blasting the room like a giant's yawn. The corridor beyond was dark; in the distance, I was almost certain I could hear the yelping of a dog.

“I'm to go there?” I asked, trembling.

“If you want to move away from this place you will. Off with you now. He doesn't particularly like to be kept waiting, and certainly not from the likes of you.”

Stricken by her rudeness, I turned to question what she meant, only to discover she, and the desk, had simply vanished. In fact, the entire room was gone! I stared, paralyzed by fear, yet unable to stop staring into the darkness. It seemed to grow ever closer. I could sense ill intent. I took a step back, my hands clutching the necklace at my throat. “Thomas...” I whimpered, wishing with all my heart and soul he would appear.

A flickering light suddenly flared at the other end of the corridor. My face brightened. Thomas! He had come! I was running to meet him, my arms open to receive that warm, loving embrace I so longed for. However, as I drew nearer, the light lifted to reveal not Thomas, but a woman dressed in a white gown. She held a torch in her hand, the orange light sinking deep into blue eyes that were immensely sad and large in a pale face. Long, dark hair hung lifeless past her shoulders.

I slowed my pace just as she said, “I am to guide you to him. Come.” She then turned away, leaving me no opportunity to question. Left with nothing to do but follow, I trailed after her, my hands pressed tightly on either arm. The baying of animals grew with every step, as did the sounds of suffering. Once again I felt on the verge of weeping, and no tears came to my eyes. The pressure continued to build inside me, as if I were a pot left too long on the fire.

The path twisted and turned in its descent, though I am not certain we were truly descending. My grasp of this strange reality was tenuous at best, for I was starting to see figures moving about the corridor, pale apparitions that fluttered like curtains every time a wind stirred. When they brushed past, it was if winter itself had taken hold. I shivered.

My silent guide and I pressed on until the pathway leveled, and a room appeared before us. It was no ordinary room: it was as if someone had cut away a section of a house and set it on the floor of the large cavern. It had four walls but no ceiling, its windows made of thick, darkened glass I could not see the room beyond. Rock formations stretched into the distance like mountains. Pinpricks of light hung suspended all along the walls, the shadows they cast drawing together to create quite a monstrous sight. Six pairs of eyes flashed in the shadows, which exhaled as the beast did.

“You may go inside,” the woman said to me, and I turned on her in frank shock. She met my gaze calmly, or dispassionately. I could not be certain. “He waits for you.”

“Who?” I asked breathlessly.

“The lord of this realm,” she replied. As she spoke the door opened of its own accord. I held myself tightly, feeling like a child lost in the woods. I desperately pleaded with her to stay. But she only took a few steps back. Soon she, and the light from the torch, were gone. I was alone. I glanced at the open door with great unease.

“Step into my parlor,” boomed a voice that was surprisingly welcoming. It gave me the courage I needed to step inside. As soon as I did the door closed behind me, but I was much too preoccupied with the interior to notice.

Richly decorated in dark blues, grays and blacks, it was the most handsome room I had ever seen. A fire roared, warm and inviting, in the stone hearth. A table laden with pomegranates, wine, and other delicacies I could not name dominated the center of the room. And seated at the head of this fare was a dark haired, slightly swarthy man of about middle years. He was wrapped in a deep blue silk robe with black accents. He watched me with a faint smile on his lips, as if he knew every secret I possessed. There was only one secret I was interested in, and it took all my courage to ask it.

“Where am I?”

“Where? Dear girl, you already know where you are,” he replied. His voice was smooth, easy. His inflection on words containing the letter 'o' was as caressing as it was disarming. I could feel my knees buckling the longer he gazed at me. The interest was not of a man beholding a beautiful woman: it was a predatory thing, dangerous yet alluring at the same instance. I confess to being completely unsure of myself in his presence. Only that burning question seemed to keep me grounded.

“I do not know,” I said in a small voice. I clasped my right hand over the left, my finger worrying the ring Thomas had given me on our wedding day. “I want to go home,” I requested, child-like.

The lord of this realm smiled. “I can see why he chose you,” he remarked. Leaning forward, he set the goblet he held upon the table, gestured to the empty chair across from me. I hesitated, recalling the cruel trick the boy played on me in the drawing room. Something akin to amusement flashed in his dark eyes. “I assure you, that chair will welcome you. And the sooner you recline the sooner we can conclude our business. That is what you want, correct?”

There was a note in his voice even I, in my confusion and terror, recognized as a command. Wordlessly, without protest, I eased into the chair. I kept my hands firmly clasped on my lap in a vain attempt to control their trembling. “Please, sir,” I began, “if you would send me on my way I would be grateful.”

“I am not so sure about gratitude, but you will be sent on your way.” He waved his hand, an elegant gesture if I had ever seen one. A ledger manifested from thin air, opened of its own accord and hovered in front of him. I shrank into the chair, my grip tightening on my ring. Thomas...

Several pages turned by some unknown force, halting when he gave a soft sound of exclamation. “Truly, yours is a fascinating tale,” he said, and I averted my gaze. There was light mockery in his tone. “Not many mortal women can claim to having been made wife, mother, widow and among the deceased in almost the same moment. I fear your declared god chose not to instill the spark of life within you upon your creation.”

I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry so much. Here I was, in a strange room in the company of a strange man who found sport in mocking me. I held myself, feeling chilled to the bone despite the warmth in the room. “Please,” I begged. “Let me go home.”

“To the Plains of Ida?”

The words brought me up short. When I cast a surprised glance his way I suddenly found we were no longer in that room, but amidst flower-strewn meadows. The sky overhead was vast, bright blue and illuminated with sunlight. A single figure stood a short distance away, bending to pick a flower and add it to the collection already in hand before moving on. There was such grace to the movements, such beauty, it was as if I were seeing something fantastical. When the figure turned my way, walking into a beam of sunlight that revealed their identity to me, I jumped from my chair. Mother!

“Mother...Mother!” I called joyously. I fled from the table, from that man's company, traversing through sweet-smelling flowers. Laughter and delight bubbled inside me- we were to be reunited at last! She would smile and welcome me with open arms. We'd go home together. But as I drew nearer to her, I saw not welcome but sorrow, and something much worse: fear.

My steps faltered. “Mother?” I ventured desperately. She gazed upon me, her eyes liquid with anguish. Then she turned away, vanishing down the hill at a steady clip. I tried to go after her, but found my feet anchored to the ground. The skies went black, the flowers lost their color, and I was left staring at a wasteland.

It was then I knew. Those images the cowled figure showed me were not some twisted fantasy derived by my mind. I had died after learning of Thomas' murder, and losing our baby. My hand pressed upon my belly, fingers curling at recalling the agony of child death. Our child, our firstborn, stolen from me, just as the father had been. The truth was like a physical blow, striking true to my heart and sending reality onto its ear. I sank to the ground, staring at my bloodied shift in despair. Gone. All of them, gone.

I sensed the lord of this realm hovering at my shoulder. “The Plains of Ida are not welcoming this day,” he observed.

I whirled on him, bloodied fingers grasping at the hem of his robe. “Let me go back to her. Let me see Thomas again. Let me see our child. If I am dead, then I should be with them.” I pressed my head to the ground, squeezed my eyes shut. Against the darkness of my lids I saw the man from the Parlor, understood the depth of his grief. “I am to be reunited with my loved ones. It's been promised.” My voice thickened with emotion. Sorrow rose up within me, pounding like a wave upon the shore against my heart. No tears came. “It's been promised!”

It was a long time before he spoke. “Promises are not my province. There is only truth here.”

I lifted my head to plead with him again. What I saw inspired fear instead, for his smile was mocking. “Your truth is this: you shall never be reunited with your loved ones, Catherine Caine. From this moment on, you are an indentured soul. Your husband saw to that.”

I felt the color drain from my face. “...what?” I breathed. Just as quickly I shook my head. “No, you're lying.”

He laughed. I winced at the sound. “I do not hold that title, though next we meet, I shall have to commend him for succeeding in such a plan.” He lifted his hand. The ground burst open to either side of me as decayed figures struggled from these pits to grasp my arms. Their touch seared me to the bone, and I cried out as they forced me to my feet. A blast of fire hit me, disintegrating my shift and leaving me nude before him. Terrified, I could do nothing but let those monstrous figures drag me away. My struggles were in vain. Their grip was like iron.

“Why?” I shouted desperately.

The lord of this realm smiled. A wall of fire had formed behind him, limning his body in red-orange light. His eyes possessed a frightening glow as well, made all the more fearsome by his smile. “Why, you ask? You have an eternity bearing the brunt of your husband's sins to ponder that, though I doubt you will succeed in discovering the answer.”

Four thin streams of light broke through the ground, latching onto my wrists and ankles. Branding me. I screamed, and kept on doing so as the decayed figures shoved me into the opening at my back. Its echo was answered by bracing laughter.

***

When I came to I found myself in an empty room. Dizzy, sickened in heart and mind, I gathered my legs to my chin, like a child, pressed my forehead to my knees and squeezed my eyes shut. I drew short, gasping breaths, each one like a shot of pain. It was not my death that troubled me- though it did, I must confess- it was the circumstances, and Thomas' apparent betrayal. I must serve out a sentence for his sins? What sins? And why would he have made such an arrangement to begin with?

Visions of my husband flitted though my mind- his smile, his gentle laughter, the way his brow would pucker as he read over documents. The feel of his kiss upon my hand, both at greeting and parting- he was so very old fashioned, and I had giggled like a young girl each time he did it. Our first kiss. Our wedding day. Oh, how handsome he had been that spring afternoon, his face glowing with affection as I approached the altar. No man in the world, the very earth, had loved a woman as he loved me. The lord of that realm had deceived me. There could be no other acceptable explanation.

Weary, I lay down on the floor, my arms concealing my bare breasts, my legs tucked close to my body. I slept and dreamed of Thomas coming to my aid, as he had once before.

A glimmer of light appeared across the way, rousing me some time later. Shielding my eyes, I watched as a section of the wall slid away to reveal the same woman who had guided me. A gown lay draped in her arms. I pushed myself upright, still very conscious of my nudity as she said, in her whispered voice, “Your assignment starts soon. I have brought you garb.” She held it out, as if she were a lady in waiting and I a great lady at court.

My ability to move was cumbered by the weight of the invisible shackles that had been set upon me. “What assignment?” I questioned. She gestured for me to rise. It took some effort, but I managed to stand upright. The woman said nothing as she dressed me. The gown was old fashioned, absent of sleeves (and shockingly low cut), its single skirt slightly gathered at my waist. Taking each of the thin straps in hand, she looped them around my neck, tying them in a small knot at the base of my skull. The material clung to me, uncomfortably so; I felt more naked now than when I had been in my shift.

She stepped away. “Your term of service to Master Hermes,” she replied quietly.

I searched her face, saw the sadness in her eyes. There was an ache present that drew my attention, and my sympathy. “Are...are you like me?”

She was silent for a moment. “No,” she said at last.

“What is your role here?”

The woman reached for her gown, lifting it just enough to expose her right ankle. Two marks were set upon it, bright red against the honeyed color of her skin. As astonishing as this was, I found the tether, wispy as smoke yet solid as iron, coiled around her ankle to be far more so. The chain attached to it trailed behind her, vanishing to points beyond. It made for a most eerie sight.

“My husband traveled to the underworld to plead for my resurrection. I was allowed to follow him, but he foreswore his vow to not look back and I have remained. Lord Hades uses me to guide new souls here, for I have walked this path many times.”

I stared, distraught by such a sad tale. “What became of your husband?”

Her eyes shone with grief, far heavier and older than what weighed upon me. “He walks upon the earth. He is never able to die. We will never be together.”

This admission nearly compelled me to grab her hand, as much for my own comfort as for hers. But all I could do was stare into her sad, lackluster face, for I saw myself mirrored there. Was I destined for the same fate as she- to be forever tormented, alone?

We stared at one another in silence for some long moments, two widows plagued by misery. At length she turned away. “You will wait here until Master Hermes' envoy comes for you.”

“Wait,” I called as she started to walk away, but it was too late. She had already gone.

My throat tightened, my hands began to tremble. Alone again. I was growing to despise the word.

Distraught, I sank to the ground. I had no thought beyond my own sorrow. It was a powerful sensation, almost tangible in its ability to keep me anchored. “Thomas,” I whispered, his name like a fervent prayer, a spell to protect me. I bowed my head, covering my face. “Thomas...”

***

Pre death, winter of 1843, England...

The skies were a sheet of gray, the rain having given way to sleet, sharp, cold, as I picked my way down the frozen streets. The weather, and my own melancholy, had transformed the familiar sights to such a degree I felt I was in another country. Everyone and everything I knew was gone. A tide of great sorrow washed over me, leaving me quite stranded amidst all these emotions. It dulled my wits as well, for I had no thought to seek Mrs. Pole, or any of the other ladies in town. I simply kept walking, head bowed as I braced myself against the wind and sleet. There was no direction, no purpose to my steps. It was as if walking was the only option available to me at this moment. I confess to not much caring. I was brought down quite low.

It was some time until I realized my steps were not wholly without purpose, for very soon I found myself standing in front of Father's old candle shop. It was shuttered now, its exterior worn from neglect and the elements. The windows were coated in a thick layer of grime. Impulsively, I reached out to wipe a section clean. As I gazed into the shop I was assaulted by memories, each evoking yet more powerful emotions. When I came to myself I peered at my reflection in the window. Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. I was like this shop now: empty but for memories. And though it was empty now, I felt certain that one day, an enterprising businessman would buy it, restore and give it new life. I ran my gloved hand along the faded lettering. There was no such future for me.

The sleet intensified then, the wind setting tiny needles of ice against me. I shivered so I felt my bones rattle. I had to find shelter. It was with great regret and shame that I took a rock to the window pane on the door. Brushing away the last bits of glass, I reached inside, undid the lock and pushed the door open. My conscience could not be bothered with things such as trespassing, not when my only other option was to freeze.

Its interior was cold and dark. A myriad of different scents tickled my nose so I sneezed often. As weary as I was, all I longed for was a warm bed to lie in. With most of the furniture either gone or broken, my only recourse was to fashion a bed from my clothes. I took out my thickest dress, separated its sections and laid them out on the cleanest part of the floor I could find. I knelt down, gazing at the emptiness while recalling those instances I had brought Father supper, or a blanket when his work kept him late. It wasn't until after I heard my sob break the silence that I realized I was now weeping. Outside, the sky wept with me. I feared I'd never see the sun again.

It was then I heard footsteps, slow, careful, as if reluctant to pass by- or with intent to draw nearer without being seen. When I lifted my head I glimpsed a shadow fall upon the door. Grime obscured the identity, but at the sight of the knob slowly turning I shot to my feet. Was this stranger a thief? A murderer? The concept frightened me greatly.

The knob's turning intensified. I slid along the wall, wanting desperately to hide myself. I gasped as the stranger pushed open the door. It swung open, admitting a gust of cold air. I drew breath to cry out for help, only to immediately fall into stunned silence.

Light pierced the overcast skies, coalescing into a shining beacon that seemed meant for the tall, young man standing in the doorway. He was well dressed, leather gloves encasing hands adorned with long, slender fingers. When he removed his hat I was treated to the sight of a finely planed face, slightly narrow at chin and cheek, complimented by a straight, angled nose. It was an expressive face, polite yet curious. Concerned.

“Forgive me for startling you,” he began. He had a soft, soothing voice. I found the tension slowly easing from my body. “But I heard weeping as I happened by. Are you well?”

“I...” I swallowed, finding it difficult to form words. The way his green eyes searched mine, the genuine concern I read there, was as startling as it was welcoming, even though we were strangers yet.

My sudden sneeze broke the silence between us.

He grew alarmed, took a step forward. “Here,” he said, withdrawing a handkerchief from his coat pocket. His movements were so elegant and refined. When he offered the cloth to me I hesitated. He may as well have been a royal, and I a shabby peasant.

Understanding entered his eyes, softening his face. “It is quite all right,” he assured me. “I could not call myself a gentleman if I did not assist a lady in need as much as you seem to be.”

There was such compassion in his words I felt tears enter my eyes. “I'm sorry,” I hastened to say, taking the handkerchief and dabbing my eyes. Glad of the opportunity to turn away to tend to my nose, still I felt his eyes upon me.

He patiently waited until I had collected myself before addressing me once more. “You haven't the look of a thief,” he observed. “Pardon my bluntness, but are you certain it is wise to seek shelter in this shop?”

I bowed my head to hide my reddened cheeks. “I have nowhere else to go,” I confessed. “I was recently evicted, and my mother...” I bit my lip. Suddenly all I could picture was Mother's coffin sinking into the ground.

The gentleman seemed to sense the source of my distress and, rather than appear uncomfortable, he said, quietly, “I see. It grieves me to hear of your sufferings. Please,” he said, and I lifted my face to his. Black hair swept back from his brow, curling just slightly behind his ears. It shone as smooth, flawless, as a raven's wing. “Let me offer you proper lodgings and a hot meal.”

I gasped softly. “I thank you, sir, but...”

“But what?” He smiled, and such a handsome smile it was! I felt my defenses weakening. “Have you plans to remain in this drafty shop? I admit there is a certain rustic charm to it,” he commented, casting a smiling glance at his surroundings. His tone was light, teasing. I could not help it, I laughed. At hearing it his smile broadened, transforming his entire face. “Ah,” he murmured. “The lady laughs, for she knows how incorrect such an observation is. Come,” he invited. “I shall help you collect your things, then we shall retire to a more appropriate setting, particularly one that is not quite so damp.”

The comfort to be had from knowing I would be granted the chance to sleep in a proper bed, coupled with his sincere generosity, was more than enough to convince me to agree to his suggestion. Once I had repacked my single bag I stood beside him in the doorway. He glanced down at me, a small smile teasing his lips. “What is your name?”

“Kit- Catherine Chandler,” I corrected myself, dropping into a polite curtsy. My cheeks warmed.

Turning to face me, he took my hand, lifted it to his lips. I confess to my pulse quickening when he pressed a gentle kiss upon it. “Well met, Miss Chandler,” he replied. “I am Thomas Caine.” He laid my hand on the crook of his arm. “Shall we go?”

I gazed up into Thomas Caine's honest green eyes, smiled and nodded. We strode out of my father's old candle shop, just as the sunlight took command of the sky.