The Jade God by Alan Sullivan (snow like ashes series txt) 📕

would like to stay now, I would be very glad to have you.”

Perkins’s thin lips moved ever so slightly, and the faintest trace of a smile flitted over the blank features. She made a little gesture that put her late employer definitely out of the reckoning.

“I always stay, madam,” she said quietly.

Edith stared at her. “Why always? I don’t quite understand.”

“I came here to Mrs. Millicent, and”⁠—here there was again the ghost of a smile⁠—“I even stayed with Mrs. Thursby, and I’m quite willing to stay with you. People come and go, but nothing has really changed.”

This announcement was made with such calmness that Miss Derrick found herself for a moment robbed of speech. Whoever came or went, this woman would always be at Beech Lodge, no more detachable than the roof which covered it. Jack had suggested that his sister try to imagine the place without Perkins, and now she saw what he meant. She began to recognize herself as part of a procession which passed before the sphinx-like eyes of this house-parlor-maid, a procession to which the woman ministered in order that she might live, but to which she revealed no fraction of her inner self. It was strange to be thus classified. But what was the alternative?

“I am glad you are so fond of the house,” she said uncertainly; “and now it comes to a matter of wages.”

Perkins’s eyes wandered to the portrait over the mantel. Wages, it seemed, were the last thing in her mind. “There will be no difficulty about that, madam.”

Miss Derrick leaned forward involuntarily. “I don’t quite understand. They are very important, to me.”

“I mean, madam, that I don’t ask for high wages.”

Miss Derrick, though greatly puzzled, breathed a sigh of relief. “The most I can pay is forty pounds a year. And of course there’s a cook to be found. Can you help me there?”

Perkins’s face softened a shade. “Forty pounds will be quite sufficient, and you will not need a cook.”

“But are you sure you can do it all?” Miss Derrick felt distinctly bewildered.

“Yes, madam.” The woman said this with so complete a finality that the subject closed forthwith. It was something more than mere competency. There was no spark of animation in her expression. Her attitude suggested that while household duties were unavoidable they were also of a secondary character, and the conversation was becoming pointless. Edith wondered whether some personal tragedy were not hidden behind this immutable barrier and experienced a throb of sympathy at the narrowness of such a life.

“You see, Perkins, I realize that you are taking on a good deal of work. You must not overtax yourself.”

“It is only work of the hands, madam.”

The new mistress of Beech Lodge shifted her ground hastily. “Is this house very old?”

“This room is the oldest part; about two hundred years, I think.”

“You must have got very fond of the place.”

The woman looked slowly about. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes were full of shadows, like the eyes of those who know exactly what they are about to see. Something might have been passing from her to those mellow panels in exchange for some other communication she was drawing from them.

“I have been here for eight years, madam; and it may be that the place has got fond of me.” She said this with a subtle change in her tone, as though for an instant she had lifted a corner of a curtain in order to test the other woman’s perception of what lay beyond.

“I can’t quite follow you there, Perkins.”

“No, madam? It doesn’t matter.”

Miss Derrick remembered what Mrs. Thursby had said about wanting to tell the woman to shout out whatever was in the back of her head and have done with it. It was understandable now, and she felt the same desire. The difficulty was going to be to regard Perkins simply as a maid and not a creature of mystery. Again she tried to think of Beech Lodge without her, and again she failed.

“I’m afraid you must have been very lonely here, especially after Mr. Thursby left.”

“I was never alone, madam. That is⁠—” She broke off in strange confusion. “I never feel lonely.”

Miss Derrick shivered in spite of herself. She perceived something now; but it was only a curtain, with no suggestion of what was behind. A thought darted through her brain. She recalled the strange manner of Mrs. Thursby, her restlessness, her obvious desire to get away, especially from this room. Mrs. Thursby had felt like an intruder, that round-faced, good-natured, unimaginative woman. Perhaps all were intruders here except Perkins, even Millicent himself. At the recollection of Millicent her pulse faltered. Perhaps that was why Millicent had been⁠—She forced herself to speak evenly.

“Perkins, will you please be quite candid with me and say whether you have ever seen anything in this house which⁠—which should not be here?”

The black eyes rounded. “I do not understand.”

“Have you ever seen what you thought was a ghost? I know there are no such things, but some people think they see them.”

“There are no ghosts here, madam.” She shook her head slowly. “I would know if there were.”

“Then will you explain what you meant when you said you were never alone?”

Perkins made the same slight indefinite gesture. “I’m sorry I said that, madam, and it was foolish of me. It’s only my fancy and doesn’t mean anything. Perhaps it’s my way of filling up empty hours, and sometimes I say things without thinking. You surprised me, because Mrs. Thursby never asked me any questions like that.”

Miss Derrick pulled herself together. “Well, Perkins, perhaps you’re quite right, and it really doesn’t matter. I suppose it’s the strange house and the feeling of not being settled that makes one curious about all kinds of things. When you’ve had your tea please come upstairs, and I’ll show you about the linen. Also I hope you’ll help me all you can to make matters go smoothly in the house, on account of Mr. Derrick’s writing. It’s important he should be disturbed