The thought that Merritt Fernsby might care about her stirred a terrifying hope inside her that had Myra’s letter quivering in her fingers. Maybe everything in her past had gone wrong because God or the fates or whatever was out there had known it wasn’t yet time for it to go right. Maybe there was something desirable within her after all . . . something a man might want, and not just things she could slap onto a résumé for employers. That maybe hurt, but the thrill of it made her feel twenty again.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, she chided, but her admonition couldn’t dampen the whirlwind of emotions beating against her ribs. Steadying herself, Hulda read through the letter and offered a finger to the pigeon, who stepped onto it obediently. She’d reply in her room, where she could pace and think for a moment. Sort out what she wanted.
She would be clear and concise to Myra. She considered leaving out information about the tourmaline, but she wouldn’t subvert her occupation for girlish whims, so she’d send along her full report. And a request to stay on board a little longer.
Just a little longer.
Merritt and Fletcher resumed their chess game after dinner, playing by the streaks of dying sun through the large multipaned windows, a glass lamp, and half the candles in a modest chandelier overhead. Merritt liked chess well enough, but Fletcher loved it, which meant that if a game wasn’t drawn out beyond the point of enjoyment, there would have to be another one.
Their game tonight was running long. Merritt’s pride alone kept him going. He still had his queen and a rook, which could prove deadly adversaries. Around them, the house had quieted, save for the call of a whimbrel outside and the settling of the house, which could also signify that Owein was entertaining himself in another chamber.
“So you’re really going to stay?” Fletcher moved his bishop a single aggravating square. Merritt had caught him up on the exorcisms and such over dinner; Fletcher’s own stories had gradually subsided as the man concentrated on the board between them.
“Really.” Merritt shifted his rook one square as well, just to see if his friend would notice.
“It’s a nice house.” Fletcher shifted his last pawn. He’d complimented the house’s niceness half a dozen times since arriving. Perhaps because he feared Owein would warp the room again. “But I couldn’t do it.”
“You’d rather keep that room with the parson?”
“I’d rather not have a ghost living in my walls.” He watched Merritt shift his queen—only one square—like a hawk. “I’d rather not worry about breaking my leg on the stairs.”
“Ankle at worst,” he offered.
Fletcher smirked. “At least you’re staying positive.”
“At least I don’t share my lavatory with a family of seven.”
He chuckled, studying his pieces. The front door opened, Baptiste’s heavy steps announcing him before he passed within sight of the doorway.
There was a skinned foreleg of a buck over his shoulder, and a trail of blood dripping down the back of his shirt.
Baptiste glanced over like a dog caught with a dinner plate.
“Baptiste.” Merritt put his heel up on the table, which Fletcher smacked back down. “Can I make you a character in my next book?”
Baptiste stared for a solid three seconds, shrugged, then slipped into the dining room. That shirt would be a nuisance to clean. Merritt would offer his services so Beth didn’t get overwhelmed. It’d been a while since he’d scrubbed at a washboard.
“You’re my witness that he consented,” Merritt chimed.
“I saw nothing.” Fletcher’s queen crossed the board, venturing close enough to capture Merritt’s rook.
He moved it one square.
“Stop doing that.” A vein on Fletcher’s forehead was beginning to pulse.
“Let me win, and the torture will end.”
Laughing, his friend shook his head. “Never. Your move.”
Leaning elbows on knees, Merritt studied the board, hoping that a means of victory would magically present itself. Perhaps I could teach Owein how to help me cheat . . .
“Merritt.”
It was only his name, but it carried a tone Merritt knew well. He glanced up through a lock of hair. Fletcher’s attention was entirely on him, not the game.
“Am I about to be scolded?” he guessed.
Fletcher shook his head. “Just thought I should tell you something while we’re alone.”
“The ghost is always lurking.”
“In earnest,” he pressed, and Merritt sat up. “I ran into Mrs. Larkin the other day. Well, I saw her. Didn’t say anything.”