Corner of the Housetop: Buried Secrets (7 page)

The fact that she was in a bad mood and taking it out on Derek was nothing new, but she'd never come so close to telling him to leave. She was often cruel, not letting him eat, or locking him in his room or, worse, the attic. But to send him away all together was beyond cruel.

Setting the bucket down, Derek knelt by the wagon and began scrubbing the mud off the sides. The more he thought, the harder he scrubbed.

With the fervor of his anger, cleaning took next to no time. The wagon was cleaned and oiled, the floor swept, and the shelves straightened.

As he set the bucket of water on the end of the shelf, the brackets groaned and gave, dumping the dirty water all over the wagon and Derek. The riding crops and hardware fell with a thump and the lap blankets slumped into the muddy water that was pooling on the floor.

Growling, Derek kicked the bucket, sending it skidding across the floor. "Just make my day even better!" he yelled, storming out of the carriage house to get some nails. Throwing the shed door open, then slamming it shut, he stomped back around the building, hammer and nails in hand.

Hitting the nail heads as hard as he could, fueling his swings with the frustration he'd been suppressing since the previous evening, Derek fixed the brackets in place then set the board back on them. He put most of the things back on the shelf then scooped up the dirty, wet blankets.

As he hung the heavy material over the lines in the backyard, Derek felt his annoyance subsiding. In the heat sweat poured down his face and the water down his front dried, leaving muddy streaks on his clothes and arms. He contented himself knowing that this had to be the absolute bottom. Nothing could make his day worse, not even Jonathan Worthington.

Derek put the bucket and nails back in the shed, locking the door behind him and sliding the key into his pocket. Checking to make sure Mrs. Worthington wasn't in the hall down stairs, Derek sneaked into the house and down to the kitchen.

Beth's round eyes popped farther out of her head as she watched him stomp down the steps and across the kitchen. "Good Lord, what happen to you?"

"I got in a fight with the shelf in the carriage house," he explained, grabbing a clean rag off the pile on the counter. Wetting it, he began to wipe the mud and dirt off his arms. "I think I lost."

"I would have to agree with you."

Glaring at her, he said, "You have no idea how much better your vote of confidence makes me feel." He threw the rag in the pile under the laundry chute. Not waiting for another comment, he climbed the stairs and slid out the side door before anyone saw him.

Derek was just walking back around the house on his way to change when he heard the sound of a horse trotting up the drive.

They're here
, he thought with dread. Changing direction, he walked towards the front porch and waited for Blueberry to come to a stop. As Devon clamored down the side of the carriage, Derek stepped forward and flipped the step down. The old man looked at the mess on his shirt and shook his head before going to the back of the carriage and beginning to unbuckle the luggage.

The first person to emerge from the carriage was Jonathan. His hair, gleaming golden in the sun, was slightly mused from travel and his trousers were wrinkled around the knees. His white shirt and vest were still pressed and clean. As he stepped onto the dusty ground, he balked, his eyes meeting Derek's.

Becoming overly aware of the state of his own clothes, Derek said tensely, "Hello, Jonathan. Can I take your things for you?"

Recovering from his shock, his gaze lingering on the muddy shirt and patched pants, the man said, "Yes. They're on the boot."

"Your mother will be inside waiting for you, Master Worthington," Devon said, peering at Jonathan as he eased a huge trunk to the ground.

With a strained smile, Jonathan nodded, then turned to help Catherine down.

The woman who stepped out carried no resemblance to the girl Derek remembered. The angel he recalled as airy and beautiful was dull and tired looking. Her green eyes had since lost their caring light and her lips, once as pink and supple as rose petals, were pale and drawn. Her golden hair was swept up on top of her head in a dull mass. The tendrils that framed her face were dry and straw-like. Catherine stumbled slightly as she reached the ground, clutching Jonathan's arm for support.

All Derek could do was stare.

"The luggage, if you don't mind," Jonathan demanded with a scowl. Turning from Derek, he rested a gentle hand over Catherine's, which still gripped his arm, and led his frail wife up the white stairs.

As they went, a third person climbed down out of the carriage. She was an elderly slave woman with a large knot of gray-streaked black hair pulled to the back of her head. Her pale blue dress, while not nearly as fine as Catherine's, was well made. She nodded respectfully at Derek (obviously mistaking his white skin to mean he was her superior), then went around the back of the carriage to help Devon with the bags.

"What you doin', boy? Git over here."

Jonathan's old slave looked slightly alarmed at Devon, then peered at Derek, avidly interested in his reaction.

Derek took no real mind to either of them. Still looking towards the door Catherine disappeared through, he walked over and lifted the last bag from the boot. He could hardly believe that the withered creature he'd just seen was the Catherine he'd fallen in love with four years earlier. Her life and vitality were gone, leaving an empty husk and a dark, forlorn feeling in the pit of Derek's stomach. All he could do was wonder what Jonathan had done to her.

"Boy!"

Derek groaned, rubbing his eyes. "What?" he called in a groggy voice.

"You gon' sleep all day, boy? Git down here!"

For the past two days, waking had followed the same pattern. Devon would get up what seemed like two hours after he went to bed and walk around, kicking things by accident (Derek was sure it was on purpose) and talking loudly to the horses, who were still asleep, asking them how their night had been. Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth would be woken up which, judging from her braying and kicking, she didn't like. All the while, Derek would be lying on his back, trying to spend a few more minutes with his eyes closed. After making quite sure everyone in the county was awake, Devon would start yelling in his raspy voice for Derek to get up.

"Half the morning's gon' and you ain't done nothin'!"

By the time the old man yelled himself hoarse, Derek was ready to kill. If it weren't for the fact that he was too tired from being woken up at four in the morning, he probably would have strangled the man.

"You up, boy?"

"Yes!"

"Then git down here!"

Finally losing his patience, Derek rolled over, hanging his head over the edge of the loft floor and yelling, "There's nothing to do until five anyway!"

"Lazy, spoiled brat," Devon muttered.

"Sure am!" he retorted, crawling back on top of his hay pile. He lied there for a few seconds, but it was no good. He was wide awake now. With an annoyed growl, he stood up, stretching his arms over his head.
I swear if he does it again tomorrow, I'll kill him,
he thought, yanking his night shirt off.

He rummaged through his chest until he found a pair of pants. They were the same ones he'd worn the previous day, which meant they were dusty and torn at the knees. Not being up at the house, he couldn't just send his laundry down to Beth and have it washed and mended every day. It was a luxury he already missed greatly. Derek was finding his new situation to be none of the wonderful, liberating adventure he'd first thought it would be.

Buttoning his shirt, Derek walked around the hay he'd piled up for a bed. After his first night of sleeping on it, he'd slipped down to the house and gotten a blanket to put over it. In the humidity, the hot, scratchy hay stuck to him in his sleep, making it nearly impossible to rest well.

"Boy!"

Derek took a deep breath, stuffing his feet into his shoes.
One more time, old man,
he thought. He climbed down the wooden ladder. Looking to his left he saw that Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth was awake and just as annoyed as he was. The mare glared at him.

"Don't blame me," he told her.

Down a little ways, Blueberry slept peacefully, his tail swishing contently every few seconds.

Shuffling towards him, Devon said, "'Bout time you got up, boy. You gon' clean up today. Got some old things need sortin' and some stuff need gittin' rid of. I'll bring the wagon 'round in a little while and you can put things in there. Start up that end of the loft."

"What? No breakfast first?" Derek asked sarcastically.

"Ain't breakfast 'til six," he told him, walking away.

And who's the slave here?
Derek thought bitterly, checking his pocket to make sure the shed key was still there. When he felt the small lump, he unhooked the oil lamp from its hanging place and opened the stable door.

In the quiet of the early morning, Derek could hear the rushing of the distant river and longed for a few spare moments by himself. Since moving into the stables, he hadn't had more than two minutes alone unless he was doing chores. For the last couple, painfully long days, Derek had been cooped up in the heat box, as he'd taken to calling it, with nothing but the smell of dung and horse.

As he crested the knoll and made his way behind the house, Derek noticed candle light flickering in Jonathan's room. The man's silhouette stood out in the window, casting a shadow against the trees below.

Looks like I'm not the only one up early,
he mused, not trying very hard to feel sorry for him.

This sighting was actually only the second time he had seen Jonathan since he and Catherine arrived. Derek never went in the house and Jonathan never seemed to leave it, building a comfortable cushion of space between the two.

On Tuesday, shortly after helping to settle Jonathan into his room, Derek had seen Catherine sitting in the window seat in the parlor, looking out at him while he hung and beat the rugs. When he glanced at her, she'd smiled politely, her ghostly pale features taking on a little of their familiar warmth. Other than that moment, she, too, had remained out of sight.

As he came to the edge of the house, Derek looked back over his shoulder towards Jonathan's window. His silhouette was gone, the lamp dimmed.

Unlocking the shed door, Derek, without bothering to lift his lamp, reached for the broom where it usually stood beside the wheelbarrow. It was nice to have some things stay the same. Broom in hand, he strolled back to the stables.

"Do you want me to save any of that junk in the loft?" Derek asked, hanging the lamp.

"Don' know what's up there."

All right. That helps me.
He climbed the ladder and looked at the pile.
This is going to take a while,
he thought.

Beginning at the front, Derek picked his way through the mess, tossing burlap sacks and lengths of twine to one side. The rusted pail, several crates and broken apple baskets, and a wide assortment of broken garden tools were thrown in another pile.

Towards the bottom, Derek came across a lamp with cracked glass. Upon closer inspection he found that to be the only thing wrong with it. It needed a new wick and the knob on the side could use some oil, but other than that it was in perfect condition. It would definitely be an improvement over his small candle holder. In his room in the house the little bit of light the candle gave off had been plenty. The loft, however, was much bigger and lacked the large window his room had. With a satisfied smile, he set the lamp on his trunk, then went back to work sorting through the rest of the discarded tools and packing materials.