Widow of Winslow and Peak

Chapter 6

Clutching my luggage with a fraught grip, I shuffle through the darkened doorway. My instincts constrict with unease. I feel as though I am encroaching on someone else's territory instead of entering my own domain.

I can barely see in front of me. An oil lamp sits on a nearby desk. If not for this small, welcoming light, it would be pitch black inside. There are many windows along the walls, but the curtains are drawn tight and shut. Not even a sliver of moonlight penetrates through the barrier.

My gaze darts around me. The bedchamber exudes an almost cavernous feel. Wide, high, spacious, but murky. I am able to make out silhouettes of bookshelves, a dresser, a mirror, a desk, a chair, and a four-poster bed. Not even the shadows can diminish the elevated nature of the room. Each piece looks like a prized family heirloom. Expertly handcrafted. As a lowly governess, I feel undeserving of such finery.

Once my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I close the doors behind me as quietly and carefully as possible. Again, I cannot shake the feeling that I am an intruder. I feel like someone is watching me from the darkness. Tiptoeing like a thief in the night, I navigate my way around the furniture towards the bed.

Suddenly, a deep, husky, masculine voice drifts towards me.

"Good evening."

I gasp, "Oh, my!"

I drop my luggage in my state of shock. It topples to the floor with a loud, embarrassing 'thud.'

My eyes snap towards the direction of the voice.

There is a gentleman laying in my bed. I cannot make out his facial features, it is too dark, but his form appears to be brawny and broad-shouldered.

"What," he demands, "is a lady like you doing here in the dead of night?"

"What am I doing here?" I squeak nervously. "I should be the one asking: What are you doing here?"

"This is the master's bedroom. Why shouldn't I be sleeping here?"

"The master's bedroom?" I echo in dismay.

He nods and confirms, "The master's bedroom."

As a dreadful realization sinks in, I practically choke on my words, "Does this mean you are—"

He seems to eye me with cool amusement.

"—Lord Hawthorne?"

"I am."

My jaw drops low.

Lord Hawthorne's reply makes my chest clench with mortification and irritation.

I am mortified—because this midnight rendezvous was not the manner in which I wished to introduce myself to my new employer. Very likely, Lord Hawthorne already thinks ill of me due to my unsavory ties to his brother, and my presence in his bedchamber will not improve his opinion of me at all.

I am also irritated—because I knew Agatha had been up to no good. She clearly ushered me into Lord Hawthorne's room on purpose!

But why?

Her words creep back into my mind.

Lord Hawthorne treats all of his servants very well. He only wishes for you to be... comfortable... during your employment here. However long that may last.

A dastardly suspicion arouses in me.

Did the maid intend to further sully my reputation?

Perhaps, she was attempting to frame me as a shameless harlot who was throwing herself at the master of the house?