Wherefore Art Thou by Melanie Thurlow

Author:Melanie Thurlow
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: 0
Published: 2018-05-29T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

At quarter past ten o’clock her stomach groaned heavily. She wasn’t sick; her nausea had departed earlier in the evening, sometime after her bath. She was hungry. Starving, really.

The last that she had eaten had been that morning at tea. She hadn’t even had a proper breakfast! And it wasn’t as though she had eaten considerably yesterday.

Another painful growl and she was on her feet. She wouldn’t be able to sleep with such an angry, empty stomach.

Isabelle slipped into the inherited robe and tied it tight around her waist, too tired to care from where it came. It wasn’t the most appropriate attire and, if she were to run into anyone, it would be quite scandalous, but she hadn’t the energy to dress herself at the moment.

She brushed back the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid and then stepped out into the hall.

Surely, Desmond was asleep by now. She hadn’t heard any movement in the house for at least an hour. Isabelle walked on her tiptoes down the stairs, with each step hoping that she wouldn’t hear a creak, one hand on the railing, the other clasping the candle. When she made it to the bottom step, she let out a little sigh of relief and made for the servant’s stairs to the basement.

The candles had not yet been snuffed below stairs, yet Isabelle did not see a single servant milling about as she made her way to the kitchen where, on a table, there was an alluring plate of tarts. Isabelle looked around her and, still finding no one, she thought that no one should mind if she should take one. She put one in her palm, and then thought, when her stomach groaned, that surely two wouldn’t be greatly missed. Picking up another, Isabelle decided she should return to bed quickly so as to avoid any unwanted attention.

Isabelle jumped when she turned to see a movement of black. She grabbed hold of her robe, clasping it about the neck to still her ferociously beating heart as she recognized the emerging shadow to be the housekeeper Desmond had not seen fit to introduce her to.

“My lady,” she said, curtsying. “What a surprise.” She was dressed from head to toe in black, her grey hair pulled back into a flawless bun even after an entire day’s work.

“Hello,” Isabelle responded nervously.

“Oh dear, I am sorry. Where are my manners? I am Mrs. Long, Hamilton Hall’s housekeeper.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Isabelle answered, unable to give the woman her name in return, as she wasn’t supposed to know it herself.

“Whatever are you doing up at this hour?” Mrs. Long looked down to the hand held in front of her belly. “Ah,” she said, bringing a hand up to her cheek, “I understand. You must be famished.”

Isabelle too looked to the tarts in her hand. Indeed, she was famished. “Just a bit hungry, is all,” she lied. “These tarts will do well to take the edge off. They are apple, are they not?”

“There are,” answered Mrs.

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