The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [108]
“As you wish.” The housekeeper picked up the tray and glanced at the leaded window. “There’s a storm brewing.”
“I’ll be on my way soon. I arranged to have an architect meet me here later. When he arrives, you can direct him to the cottage.”
“Of course.” At the doorway, Mrs. Logan paused to glance back at her young visitor.
Bree’s head had fallen back against the cushion of the chair. Despite the fact that her eyes were closed, the lines of lingering tension were clearly visible.
Bree jerked awake, wondering how long she’d slept. It felt as though only minutes had passed.
Mrs. Logan was peering nervously out the window.
“Thank you again, Gwynn. I believe I’ll head over to the gatekeeper’s cottage.”
As she made her way to the front door, the housekeeper trailed behind, unable to hide her disapproval. “ ’Tis little more than a hovel now.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Duncan went ahead to lay a fire to chase the chill.” She glanced out the window. “You’re apt to get wet.”
Bree was determined to put the old woman’s mind at ease. “Please don’t concern yourself. I’m really quite self-sufficient. I’ve brought a few supplies, so you won’t need to bother fixing anything in the morning. Duncan told me that you and he have been living in the village, and only came back here to lend a hand during my stay. For that, I’m most grateful. But please don’t feel the need to hurry back early in the morning. I asked Duncan to leave me a complete set of keys to the rooms of the manor house.” She opened the door and stepped out onto the wide portico. “If you have the time to drive up from the village, I’d be grateful for your company tomorrow. And please, keep an eye out for the architect. Good night, Gwynn.”
The housekeeper remained in the doorway as Bree descended the steps and started along the pathway toward the cottage. Bree heard the old woman give a gasp of surprise as the wind caught the door from her grasp and slammed it shut. She found herself smiling, imagining Mrs. Logan huddling behind the draperies, watching and waiting to hear the wail of banshees or the glint of fairy lights.
Let her watch, Bree thought. Let the whole world watch and wait.
What could ghosts do that hadn’t already been done to her? There was no room in her life for fear. No time to indulge in self-pity or recriminations. There was enough anger in her to fuel whatever work lay ahead. From now on, it was full steam ahead, regardless of the consequences.
TWO
Angry storm clouds roiled across the sky—a sky punctuated by quick, jagged flashes of lightning. The wind had picked up, sending the branches of trees into a frenzy.
The pathway leading to the stone cottage was overgrown with brush. Ivy, wild and tangled, covered nearly every inch of the exterior of the building, giving it a mad-fairy-tale look.
Bree pulled open the heavy front door and stepped inside. Shivering in the damp cold, she hurried across the room and dropped to her knees before the hearth. Why hadn’t Duncan started a fire?
She sat back on her heels.
It would seem that he had. The wood was charred and wisps of smoke still lingered.
She carefully checked to see that the flue was open before holding a match to fresh kindling. When the fire was blazing, she closed the fire screen and noted with satisfaction the generous supply of firewood neatly stacked beside the hearth.
She stared around at the white sheets that covered the furniture.
“Like shrouds,” she muttered.
Despite her weariness, she circled the room, pulling them off, folding them, and setting them in a neat pile in a corner. Then she turned on every lamp to chase away the gloom.
“That’s better.” She looked around to admire the furnishings.
Though the sofa and chairs were old and worn, they appeared comfortable enough. There was a padded rocker pulled up before the fireplace, with a footstool and a lovely old ornate table alongside it, just right for a cup of tea.
Feeling her spirits