Wicked Nights With a Lover (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #3)(3)

Marguerite shook her head, furious. “Spare me the ethical obligations of a seer,” she scoffed. Snatching hold of the woman’s arm, she tugged her toward the stairs, not about to give up. “You’re going to tell that woman—”

Marguerite stopped, turning cold at the sudden look on Madame Foster’s face. She’d seen the rapt, frightened expression before. Only moments before when she’d clutched Mrs. Danbury’s hands.

A sick, wilting sensation twisted in her belly. Marguerite loosened her grip, eager to sever the contact, but then Madame Foster tightened her hold, keeping her hostage, her eyes eerie-bright, glassy and faraway.

“Let me go,” she hissed, tugging at her hand and marveling at the older woman’s strength.

Desperate, Marguerite stomped down on her foot, finally freeing herself. Rubbing her hand, she wondered if she shouldn’t simply wash her hands of this madhouse and move on to her next assignment.

“You,” Madame Foster whispered, her gaze focused again, eyes darting avidly over Marguerite’s face in a way that reminded her of a wild animal. “I’ve seen your death.”

Marguerite resisted the small chill the words elicited, reminding herself that this woman was a charlatan. Propping her hands on her hips, she asked, “Indeed? Mine, as well? This is an inauspicious day, is it not? Do I have but a week to live, too?”

“No.” The woman readjusted her shawl around herself. “You have more time than that. Before the year is out, you’ll meet your end. I have seen it with my own eyes. This Christmas shall be your last.”

Marguerite could not stop her shiver. “I think you should leave.”

Madame Foster nodded as though she couldn’t agree more. “Aye, I’ve had enough of this house. I’m sorry for both of you. But you especially.” Her gaze roamed her face, eyes brimming with pity. “So young. And such a terrible accident.” She clucked her tongue. “Tragic.”

Vexed beyond her limit, Marguerite pulled the front door open herself, with no care that she was effectively kicking one of Mrs. Danbury’s guests from the house. Her further presence could bring no good. “Leave.”

“Happily.” Madame Foster departed. It took every effort not to slam the door behind her. Even from where she stood, the wails of her employer could be heard above stairs. She would not be easy to soothe. With a sigh, Marguerite started up the stairs, unable to credit the heaviness settling in her chest.

She didn’t believe the swindler’s claims for one moment. She didn’t believe in spells or magic or people who predicted fate. Rubbish. If she could see it, touch it, taste it, then it was real.

At week’s end, she would have her proof. Mrs. Danbury would be fine. Hale and hearty and sane. Sane, if not again, then perhaps for the first time in her life, with the evidence of her foolishness staring her in the face.

And Marguerite would be free to move on to her next assignment.





Chapter 2

A week later, Marguerite was free to move to her next assignment. Mrs. Danbury was dead.

Standing over the still warm body of her employer, she stared hard at the lifeless form until her eyes ached. She stared. And she stared. As if she could will the woman to rise and not be dead.

She’d witnessed countless deaths, stood alongside the families and friends as they mourned, shared stoically in their sorrow. And yet never had she felt like this. This was different.

This couldn’t be happening.

Her chest constricted, air impossible to draw. Guilt, she realized, although she couldn’t credit such an emotion. She had afforded her patient every care … even as she had not believed, up until the very end, that Mrs. Danbury was actually relapsing, actually dying. She had performed every measure to try and save her life. All for naught. Madame Foster had been right.

She blinked her dry, aching eyes. When Mrs. Danbury took a turn for the worse, declining swiftly over the course of three days, Marguerite had refused to believe that the seer could possibly have been correct. It was insupportable. For if she were correct …

Marguerite shook her head fiercely and swallowed against the terrible thickness in her throat. She directed her attention back to Mrs. Danbury’s grieving daughter. An unfortunate creature with a too-large nose and a regrettable moustache. She had never wed. Before Marguerite’s arrival, she had been her mother’s constant companion. To say Marguerite’s presence was a point of resentment would be an underestimation.

“Why? Why? She was so much better … on the mend, you said so!” Miss Danbury beat the bed beside her mother, very much like a child in a tantrum. “You said so, Marguerite, you said so!”

Marguerite flinched. She couldn’t say a word, couldn’t offer an explanation. Madame Foster’s face materialized in her mind. You’ll not live out the week. Her prophetic words had come to pass.

Shaking her head, Marguerite placed her hand on the young woman’s shoulders, only to be shaken off.

She wet her lips to summon her customary words of sympathy. “I’m sorry. Your mother lived a good life. A full life … and a life lived is nothing to grieve.”

She uttered the words every single time … had heard them once, when she’d first begun as a sick nurse. A friend of the bereaved family had offered the words of solace within her hearing and she thought them terribly wise. Now she thought them tragic. Tragic for someone like herself … because she hadn’t lived a particularly good life. Thus far, she could not characterize her life as full either. Her life simply … was. A series of days passing, one after the other.