Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

He moved to the next paper, eyeing the stack with distaste. He should have brought Beth along. She would have fit in the boat . . . if she sat in his lap, perhaps. But that would only create different problems.

Groaning, Merritt leaned his chin into his hand and stared out the window, the faint sound of clopping horse hooves wafting in on the autumn breeze. A woman walked by pushing a pram, followed by a group of adolescents with their heads pushed together, hair stuffed under caps and laughter on their lips. Going the opposite way was a melancholy fellow, shoulders hunched, lips downturned, hole over the left knee of his trousers.

Merritt got an idea. “Hey! Hey, you!”

The man paused and glanced around, taking a few seconds to find the window.

Merritt waved. “I need help scribing something in here, and it’s going to take me until midnight if I do it on my own. Can you write?”

The man hesitantly nodded.

“I’ll pay you.”

The man considered for a moment. Pointed ahead, toward the closest doors. Merritt nodded, and the fellow left, appearing minutes later in the vast records room. He was much taller and broader than he’d appeared out the window.

Merritt waved him over, then shook his hand. “Thank you, my good chum. I need to make copies of all of this.” He moved the stack between them as the stranger sat down. “Merritt Fernsby. What’s your name?”

“Baptiste,” he said, the name spoken in a heavy French accent.

Worried perhaps that he’d called over someone who was only literate in a foreign language, Merritt pressed, “Where are you from, Baptiste? What brings you to Portsmouth?”

Baptiste bent his neck one way, then the other, and it popped loudly. “I am from Nice in France. Been here three months. Had bad luck back home.” He shrugged.

Relieved, Merritt said, “Well, hopefully this is good luck today. You take this half”—he handed him several papers—“and I’ll take this half.” He pulled a second pencil from his shirt pocket. “The quicker and neater you copy them, the more I’ll compensate you. Sound fair?”

Baptiste nodded and got to work. His handwriting wasn’t perfect, but it was legible, so Merritt set to copying his own papers, drawing out the forks of genealogy and squinting to read smudged names along the tines. He was on his third page when he said, “What do you do for a living?”

Baptiste didn’t look up from his work. “Nothing now. Everyone says go farther north for job, but I do not want to work on the railroad or in the steel plants.”

“You certainly have the arms for it.”

Baptiste merely shrugged and crossed a T. “But I do not want to go south, either. I do not like it down there.”

“There’s lots of work to be had—”

“I do not like it.” His tone was final, so Merritt didn’t push him. He could easily guess why a person might not want to cross that carefully sketched line that divided the United States.

Merritt copied down another name. “What did you do in France?”

Baptiste sighed, like a long story had disintegrated up his throat and puffed out of him, unintelligible. “I was chef.”

Merritt slammed down his pencil, startling the large man. “No! You’re joking.”

Baptiste finally looked up, his wide forehead wrinkled. “Being chef is funny here?”

“No, not that. I need a chef!” He clapped his hands. “Hulda has been positively pestering me to hire one, and here you are!”

Baptiste leaned away, skeptical, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Who is this woman? Your wife?”

Merritt laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, no. She’s my housekeeper. Or rather, she’s someone else’s housekeeper but is tending my house on their behalf . . . it’s complicated.”

Baptiste glanced at the documents, then back up. “You need chef?”

Merritt grinned. “Baptiste, do you believe in ghosts?”

That forehead crinkled even further. “. . . No?”

“Excellent.” He slapped the man on the shoulder. “Consider yourself hired.”

Hulda returned to Whimbrel House late; the small fishing boat she’d hired to take her out to the island dropped her off as dusk was starting to settle and the lighthouses sprang to life. There was enough light for her to slip past leathery grape fern and multiflora roses. A path was already starting to form in the long grass, making the way easier. Drawing a deep breath, Hulda absorbed the sweet scent of chrysanthemum and let it fill her, easing the tension of the day. One thing at a time, she reminded herself. Only worry about yourself. It was advice she had to inculcate often, as she frequently wished she could take control of others’ lives for a little while, if only to make the world a more organized place.

As for Silas Hogwood . . . she would do as Myra recommended and sleep on it.

Lifting her skirts, she stepped onto the porch and opened the front door—unlocked, but who else was going to let themselves in? And promptly screamed.

There was a large heathenish man in the reception hall.