An Unexpected Pleasure (The Mad Morelands #4)(8)

Deirdre dropped the potato she had been peeling and stared at her sister, then burst into a merry peal of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Megan asked indignantly. “It’s a perfectly good idea.”

“You? As a maid? Or maybe a cook?” Deirdre said after a moment, when she finally paused in her laughter and wiped away the tears her laughter had brought. “I should like to see that.”

“You think I couldn’t clean or cook?” Megan asked, putting her fists on her hips. “It’s not as if I haven’t done such things. I cooked and cleaned enough when you were growing up.”

Deirdre tried, not entirely successfully, to compress her lips into a straight line. “Perhaps—when Mary Margaret was cracking the whip. But that has been years.”

“I haven’t forgotten how. I’m sitting here paring potatoes, aren’t I?”

“Yes. But look at the pile of peelings in front of you.” Deirdre gestured toward the newspaper spread on the table between them. In front of Megan, there was a handful of peelings. Across the table, before Deirdre, lay a mound three times that size.

“You started before I did,” Megan pointed out. At her sister’s look, she went on, “Oh, all right, I’m not as fast as you. But they won’t know that.”

“You’d be fired in two days. For answering back, if nothing else. I know you, Megan Mulcahey, and taking orders won’t sit well with you.”

“You’re right about that. But I will simply have to accept it. I don’t see any other way to get into the house. Cleaning rooms will give me a perfect opportunity to look for something that Moreland might have stolen from Dennis.” She paused and looked at her sister a little tentatively. “Umm, I wonder—about those things that Dennis, uh, was looking for…”

Deirdre sighed. “No, I don’t know anything more about them. I haven’t heard or seen anything from Dennis since that night. I have no idea what he wants back so badly.” She paused, then went on, “I know you don’t really believe that Dennis came to me.”

“I don’t think you’re fibbing,” Megan assured her hastily. “I know you believe Dennis appeared to you—in actuality or a dream or something. I just find it—well, it’s—”

“I know. It’s much too otherworldly for you. You believe in tangible things, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You deal in facts, in the practical world. I know that. But, Megan…” Deirdre leaned forward, her brow wrinkled earnestly. “I’m not crazy.”

“Deirdre, I never meant…!” Megan cried, reaching her hand to her sister.

“No, I know you don’t think I’m insane. But there would be those who did if they knew some of the things I’ve seen and heard. But I know what I saw. It was Dennis, and he spoke to me—whether he was right there in the room with me or in a dream, I’m not entirely sure. But I know it was he, and I know he was desperate. He wants whatever was taken from him. It means a great deal to him. And he came to us for help.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Megan told her honestly. “’Tis hard for me to believe in such things, but I know you are neither crazy nor a liar, and as long as there is any chance that Dennis did come back from the grave, asking for our help, I shall strive to do what he wants. And I’ll take any help you can give me, even if it does come to you in a dream.”

“I only wish I could help you.” Deirdre sighed. “I wish this sort of thing was not always so uncertain. Every night when I go to bed, I pray that I will hear from him again. That he will tell us how to help him.”

Megan hardly knew how to respond to her sister.

Deirdre’s unquestioning faith in her visions amazed her and left her feeling, frankly, a little envious. It must be comforting, she thought, to be without doubt or questions. It was not a state, she feared, that she would ever be in. Her entire life was built upon questions, it seemed.

They continued to talk as they finished peeling the potatoes, and afterward Deirdre put the potatoes on to boil and checked the roast in the oven as she continued to put the evening meal together. Megan went upstairs to wash up before supper, then sat down to record her notes about Broughton House in a small notebook.

It was her custom on any story to keep notes this way. It helped her to plan her actions, she found, as well as think about the story in depth, and it also kept her quotes as accurate as possible. Over the course of the years, it had become an ingrained habit.

She only wished she had more facts to go on.

Finally she went downstairs to supper, finding, to her surprise, that her father had not come home yet. After waiting for him for some time, she and Deirdre sat down to eat, glancing now and again at the clock in the dining room, then at each other, their worry palpable.

He still had not arrived by the time they were through with their meal, and Megan helped Deirdre wash and dry the dishes as they talked, their vague concern growing.

It was with a great deal of relief that they heard the front door open a few minutes later, and then their father strolled in, whistling a tune.

“Good evenin’ to you,” Frank Mulcahey said, grinning and taking off his cap.

“Where have you been?” Megan asked. “We’ve been worried about you.”

“Worried? No need for that. I’ve been out investigating.”