House of Furies (House of Furies #1)

Naturally, my teachers at Pitney grew weary of my vigilance. And so did my grandparents. They were the ones who sent me off to school, happy to pay for it as long as I was none of their concern. From mother to grandparents to school, they all fancied a hard, stinging lesson when I happened to do or say the wrong thing. It was better to take a beating and forget the pain and humiliation at once. But I never forgot such indignities, and the compounding misery made me constantly shy, like the horse that knows only the whip and never the faintest touch of affection.

“I cannot change your nature, girl,” the old woman said. She huddled by the fire while I returned with laden arms. “But I can recommend you keep what those sharp eyes see in that sharp mind, and not let it out with a sharp tongue. The master at Coldthistle House has no time for busybodies and gossips. Hard work is all he asks, and your opinions are not required.”

Again I felt a pang of doubt. An actual roof and regular meals sounded attractive, but now I wondered at the cost.

“I have never much enjoyed obedience.”

“And so it is a miracle you yet live,” the woman said with a harsh laugh. “Now, quick, set the grease in the pot. I think another wagon approaches, and I do not intend to share much.”

I turned away from the fire and squinted into the distance both ways—darkness and clouds and the very edges of far-off trees but no sign of travelers. “I hear it not.”

“As you said, I travel this road frequently and I’ve learned to bend my ear a certain way.”

It seemed unlikely that a woman of her advanced age would have keener senses than I, but I crouched and arranged my skirts politely, then dropped a knob of grease into the pot. When it was hot and nearly spitting, I added the dry oats and a bit of what looked like sheep’s milk. The crone produced a small packet of brown powder from the many folds of her cloak and tipped it into the food. At once, the glorious scent of cinnamon swirled around us, and my stomach roared with approval.

No sooner had the crone slopped a portion of cooked oats into my bowl than a low, rumbling sound came from the road behind us. I stood and chewed, slowly, watching a wagon far finer than the old woman’s crest the hill. The horses slowed, and the carriage—for in truth it was such, and not a mere wagon, with a team of two matching chestnut beasts—descended safely. A driver in all black shrank inside his coat, the collar flapping around his face as the wind and rain picked up.

“Eat what you want now. If they stop, I will have no choice but to share,” the crone muttered. Her portion was already gone. “A carriage that fine, their man will have what’s needed to fix our wagon.” As she predicted, the driver caught sight of our meager little camp and pulled over, hefting a rain-spattered lantern and shining it toward us.

“Greetings now on this mild, seasonable night,” the crone said with a friendliness of tone I’d not heard from her before. She seemed less formidable suddenly, meek, hobbling toward the road with her head bent and shoulders hunched.

“What’s the fuss up there?” I heard someone call from inside the carriage. It was the voice of an older man, not a rich accent but certainly not a poor one either. A Midlands accent with the roughness polished down.

“Two women, sir,” the driver called back. He was of medium height and stocky, and even his heavy coat could not hide his muscled frame. The crone was right—we could use such a man’s help righting the wagon. He looked the old woman up and down and then glanced at me. “An old woman and a girl, sir.”

“A broken wheel has left us stranded,” she explained. “We could be persuaded to share our humble meal with you all if you aid us.”

The door of the carriage swung open. It was dark inside. I could not see the eyes of whoever studied us from within.

“I do so hate to beg,” the crone continued, her voice trembling. Even I was briefly convinced of her desperation. “You would not leave two defenseless womenfolk on a cold and rainy road, would you?”

“Turn off, then, Foster. Let us see this broken wheel for ourselves.”

The driver obeyed, cracking a short whip and urging the bowed-head horses off the road. The animals looked as drenched and exhausted as I felt.

When they had stopped, the driver leapt to the ground and muttered his way to the carriage door, kicking down the stand and opening the door for his charges. He had taken the lantern, and I watched two men descend, their collars flipped up against the deluge.

It was an old fellow with thick gray hair and a heavy brow, and behind him came a young man so bright of face, curious, and golden, I forgot all about the hunger in my belly and the rain soaking my hair.





Chapter Four





“You’ve dropped your spoon.”

“Sorry?”

“There’s no need to apologize, only—”

“Oh. Yes. There it is, isn’t it?” The spoon had landed scoop down in the mud right next to my shoe. A tiny glob of porridge dotted the leather toe, as if to punctuate this gloomy introduction. I knelt to retrieve the spoon, not anticipating that the young man would do the same. His far larger hand closed over the handle and then we both stood at the same moment, and he produced a handkerchief to wipe both mud and porridge from the wood.

“Rawleigh Brimble,” he said, giving me the spoon. “Which is my name. Bit of a mouthful. Usually just go by Lee.”

“Louisa,” I replied. My surname held so little value, I almost never offered it in these situations. The shock of his appearance had worn off, and I managed to grasp the spoon and deposit it safely in the bowl. I turned to put it back near the fire, where the crone was slopping out a meager portion into a bowl for the older gentleman. The driver strode off with his lantern, interested foremost in the state of our wagon.

“Are you often in the habit of rescuing maidens and their spoons?” I asked.

His smile widened at that, a feat which seemed impossible given how widely he already beamed. “I’m afraid not, but I should be! I do feel awfully gallant now.” His turquoise eyes squinted into the darkness. “Have you been stranded here long, Louisa?”

“Not very. With any luck we’re on to Coldthistle House soon. Do you know it?”

Those very turquoise eyes widened in surprise and perhaps delight. “How extremely funny. Yes, in fact. That is our destination, too. What a chance this is! Uncle, did you hear? These ladies are destined for Coldthistle also!” He perched one fist on his hip and laughed, turning back to me. He wore a fine suit under his overcoat, but the wool had worn through in places and been artfully mended. “Are you boarding there as well? Uncle and I have business in the area.”

“Oh! No . . .” I could feel the crone’s eyes on me. They burrowed. Nothing but the truth would suit, and it felt strangely embarrassing. Somehow my destitution, my anonymity, felt suddenly harsher. “I’m taking a position there.”

“In the scullery,” the old woman helpfully finished.

I did not glare. I had no idea yet if she was to be my employer, and perhaps I had annoyed her enough for one journey. “Exactly so,” I said softly.

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