“Thank you, Jani.” Mena took the small folded letter and a pang of apprehension shot through her as she instantly recognized Farah Blackwell’s small and efficient handwriting. She smiled her gratitude and began to push her door closed.
“Forgive my impertinence, Miss Mena.” Jani stood on his tiptoes and stretched his neck to peek around her into her chamber. “But I could not help noticing that you have been here for several days and have yet to fully unpack your trunks.”
Glancing behind her, she noted that her trunks, indeed, remained where they’d been placed at the foot of the bed, and she’d not done a great deal to move their contents to the wardrobe. Every time she considered emptying them, something had prevented her from doing so. What if she had the need to flee again? What if she’d failed to impress the marquess and he sacked her? Surely if her things were already in their trunks, it was safer.
“I—I’ve yet to find the time to truly settle in.”
Chocolate eyes lit with the pleasure one found in a grand idea as Jani clapped his hands together. In a liquid movement of violet silk, he somehow slid past her and into her room. “Permit me to assist you, Miss Mena. We will be finished by the time it is for supper.”
“That really isn’t necessary.” Mena tucked the letter into her belt and hovered anxiously by as he hurried to the empty wardrobe in the turret and threw open the ornate doors. Anxious to read her letter, she considered the best way to dismiss him without hurting his feelings.
“I was the valet to the Mackenzie for many years before he brought me here to Ravencroft.” Jani announced proudly. “I am exceptional at organization.”
“I’m certain you are, but—”
“When he was lieutenant colonel, I kept almost twelve uniforms for him and also his other belongings.” Bustling to her trunks, he unlatched one and tossed the lid up and gasped as though he’d found a poisonous serpent.
“What?” Mena asked, her heart rate spiking. “What is it?”
“Oh, no, no, Miss Mena, no, no, no. It is being bad luck to be putting a red garment next to a blue garment,” he said gravely.
“It is?” She peered into her own disheveled trunks as though she’d never seen them before.
“Yes. In my village they are two very auspicious colors. One is sensuality and purity, and the other is the color of creation. Very powerful. And they will fight each other, causing you many problems.”
She’d certainly seen her share of those. “Fight each other…” she echoed. “In—in my closet?” Mena regarded him skeptically, thinking how strange and intriguing it was that sensuality and purity were considered to be close to each other in his culture.
He nodded gravely. “I will fix this, and arrange your garments for optimal placement for colors, seasons, and accessories.” Plucking her red wool pelisse from where she’d folded and tucked it, he snapped it out and began to brush the wrinkles and arrange the buttons.
Mena wanted to insist on her privacy, but she had seen that expression of serious determination and kind condescension before. Her father used to wear it often, and when he did, she’d learned that there was no standing in his way. In truth, she’d never had to unpack and organize her own garments before. She’d always had servants to do so, and was both ashamed and grateful for the assistance.
Taking a moment, she turned from him and unfolded the letter, which, it seemed, had been folded and unfolded a few times. Her heart kicked against her ribs as she absorbed Farah’s carefully intended words.
Dearest Mena,
It is my fervent hope that you are settling well into your new position. London is frenetic with preparation for the coming holiday season and gossip already abounds. I thought I’d inform you so you don’t feel so isolated. The most salacious story on everyone’s tongue is that of a viscountess who apparently absconded from Belle Glen Asylum more than a fortnight ago during a recent régime change organized by none other than my husband. She’s quite disappeared. No one knows what to make of it.
The viscount and his family appear beside themselves with worry. They’ve all but torn the city apart looking for her, and have threatened to start searching abroad, going so far as to hire a few detectives. Though I found it curious that her father-in-law has petitioned the high court to begin proceedings toward proclaiming her deceased. I find myself hoping that she is careful, that she is never found by these horrible people. Though my dear husband has improved upon the situation at Belle Glen, I should not like to see her back there.
Write and tell me how Scotland agrees with you. I do so miss Ben More Castle. Perhaps in the summer when we return, I will come to visit you.
Please take care, dear Mena.
Your ardent friend,
Lady Farah Blackwell, Countess Northwalk.
“You have gone very, very pale, Miss Mena,” Jani observed. “I fear you are fainting.”
He reached to help her and Mena put out her arm. “No. No, I’m just fine, Jani. Just a bit of bad news, is all.”
“Did someone die?” he queried, dark eyes liquid with concern.
Myself, perhaps, she thought acerbically, tucking the letter back into her wide belt.
“No, Jani, it’s nothing of consequence,” she lied. Extracting the bodice of the green dress she’d worn to dinner the first evening, she arranged it to be hung neatly, mirroring Jani’s efficient movements and hoping to distract him from the letter. “I don’t often think of the marquess as a lieutenant colonel,” Mena remarked, picking up a scrap of conversation he’d dropped earlier. “Were we in England, he’d be referred to as such, but I rarely hear of it here at Ravencroft.”