The Vanishing at Castle Moreau(7)
Author: Jaime Jo Wright
Daisy had to admit she hadn’t been invited anywhere in Castle Moreau—except for being invited to care for it. If Festus’s implication was correct, then she was the only house servant, which meant it was within her rights to investigate the various rooms . . . wasn’t it?
The room beyond the door was silent, minus the agonizing whine of the hinges as it protested being opened. Daisy poked her head in, then entered entirely. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the room. It was vast and oppressive. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany to match the flooring. The windows on the opposite wall were covered with heavy green draperies, pulled shut, canceling out any light that might otherwise make the room cheery.
A large stone fireplace with a majestic mantel stood cold and empty of coals. It didn’t appear to have been lit for some time, and the stuffed chairs forming a semicircle in front of the fireplace were covered with dust cloths. Bookshelves lined the wall from floor to ceiling on her right. The shelves were filled with thick tomes, and for a brief second, Daisy had a euphoric rush of delight.
“Do you always enter a room unannounced?”
A gravelly male voice shattered Daisy’s calm. She shrieked, jolted backward, and rammed her elbow against the edge of the solid door.
Rubbing her elbow, she squinted toward the shadows to her left. The form of an imposing desk came into view, with little to adorn it but a lamp that remained dark. A man sat behind the desk, his hands folded and resting on the desktop.
Daisy realized then that he’d been silently observing her from his place behind the desk. She couldn’t make out all his features, but what she could see caught her breath in her chest. Deep-set eyes. Rakish dark hair. A sharp jawline. Black shirt buttoned to his neck but with no tie.
Daisy could feel his eyes on her. Penetrating. Judging. Drawing conclusions about her . . .
“I’m so sorry?” Her words slipped out as a question and gave away her nerves that made Daisy’s voice quaver beneath his assessment.
He didn’t respond. Staring seemed to be his action of choice, and that was more unsettling than if he’d launched into an angry fit at her interruption.
Needing to fill the silence, Daisy fumbled for words. “I-I’m Daisy, the new housemaid. I was merely trying to find . . . well, I thought it best if I . . . I mean, everything is so dusty and needs attention, I thought . . . Would you like some tea?”
He stared a moment longer and then responded, “No.”
“No?” Daisy squeaked. “Well then, coffee perhaps?” She prayed there was coffee, and someone in the kitchen who would have already made it.
“No.”
“No,” Daisy repeated.
He continued with his staring.
“Can I . . . do you need anything? Sir,” she added quickly.
This time he bent his head down to look at whatever he had been reading. It was a blatant dismissal, and Daisy took the opportunity it afforded and made her escape. She shut the door with a firm thud behind her, leaning back against it, tilting her head until it rested against the door.
That had been unexpected.
Very unexpected.
It was so, so Wuthering Heights. Or worse, perhaps he was a male Mrs. Havisham, doomed to abiding in a locked room, harboring a broken heart from thwarted love.
Footsteps on the stairs caused Daisy to jerk her attention toward the sound. Festus stepped onto the top stair, his eyes shifting between her and the door. Awareness crept over his face as he took in what had to be Daisy’s bewildered expression and the fact that her hand was still on the knob.
Festus cleared his throat. “I shoulda told you night before. Leave the room at the far end of the balcony alone.”
“Who is he?” Daisy breathed, unable to squelch her horrified curiosity.
Festus’s brows drew together, and his “harrumph” was loud enough that Daisy was certain the man behind the door would have heard it.
“He is Lincoln Tremblay.” Festus rammed his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. “Madame Tremblay’s grandson. She calls him mon chéri sometimes.”
“Mon chéri?” The French words on her tongue felt strange and unfamiliar.
“You don’t call him that,” Festus warned, shaking his head. He motioned with his knobby hand for her to follow him back down the stairs.
Daisy hurried after him. “What do I call him then?” She had to know since she would more than likely be helping to serve him.
Festus grunted and didn’t bother to give her his attention as he descended the stairs. “You don’t call him nothing.”
“But what if I need to get his attention?” Daisy frowned, hurrying after the exceptionally spry old man.
“You won’t.” Festus reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to level a stern glare on her. “He speaks only to Madame Tremblay.”
“But I spoke to him.”
“Did you?” Festus’s voice held a hint of wry teasing and deep warning.
“I thought—”
“Thoughts are deceivin’.”
With that, Festus was obviously finished discussing Lincoln Tremblay. Daisy glanced up the stairs one last time. But she wasn’t sure she was finished. The haunted visage of the man sequestered in his study stayed with her. She wasn’t certain if he was a man to be pitied or to be terrified of.
Perhaps he was a bit of both.
four
Cleo
It was definitely a castle, though nothing close to the massive, imposing quality of Neuschwanstein Castle that Cleo had seen pictures of and what Cinderella’s castle at the popular theme park was modeled after. It had three stories, turrets at both ends, and was completely made of stone and it was square in the middle.
Cleo shut the car door after giving Murphy a nervous glance. She had bit off way more than she could chew. This was obvious. Deacon Tremblay had magnanimous ideas that she could organize his grandmother’s home, and she had no idea what questions to ask before accepting a job that paid well and had stipulations about being discreet and confidential. That last part she could do—she had been doing—but she probably should have asked how big the task was and clarified it wasn’t a hoarder’s paradise—or a flipping castle.