Always in My Dreams by Jo Goodman Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jo Goodman
to the ad. It took her several attempts to find the right words. She didn't want to sound too young or inexperienced, afraid that if Mr. Parnell suspected she was young, she might not even be granted an interview. The references from Dr. Turner and Logan Marshall would help, but she had to pass muster first.
Unaware of passing time, Skye looked over her last draft and decided it was worth recopying in her best handwriting. She stretched, arms flung wide, back arched, before hunching over the desk again like an accounting clerk. She had just set pen to paper when she heard a thud below stairs.
Skye paused, cocked her head to one side, and listened. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the clock on the mantel. It was after one, too late for either her father or her mother still to be up. Mrs. Cavanaugh and her husband had long since retired to their apartment above the carriage house. There were no other servants living on the property.
But there was the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
Rising gingerly from her chair, careful to be quiet, Skye padded barefoot to the door. She fingered the worn threads of her sash as she moved along the hallway to the backstairs. Below her there was silence again. She waited, barely breathing. Just at the point she began to believe she had imagined it, she heard movement again.
It was not possible to know the precise location of the noise. As Skye stealthily made her way down the stairs, she kept hoping she'd find her father in the kitchen with a glass of warm milk, or Mrs. Cavanaugh returned from the carriage house because she'd had a sudden urge to bake bread. Neither explanation seemed particularly likely, and when she reached the bottom of the steps she learned that neither was true. The kitchen was dark and empty and the sounds were coming from somewhere down the hall behind her.
Skye had not considered a weapon until now. She picked up a butcher knife from the wooden cutting block and went into the hallway. There was silence again and Skye learned firsthand how it was possible for silence to be deafening. Blood rushed in her ears, her heart slammed in her chest, and her imagination was marching ahead double time. Having no clear idea what she would do if confronted by an intruder, she went on, opening one door after another, peeking in each room, then stepping back when she found no one.
Outside her father's study she paused again, this time pressing her ear to the door. She crouched and looked through the keyhole. There was a vague light in the room and it startled her until she remembered there had been a fire in the grate. It was only the dying embers, she realized, and turned the handle.
It took a single step into the room to know she was not alone. She felt the presence of another person, the warmth of a body nearby, the tension of fear, the barely audible hum of controlled breathing.
Skye's knuckles whitened on the door handle. She tried to slam the door with herself safely in the hallway, but a foot wedged itself between the door and frame. She opened her mouth to scream and almost immediately something capped the sound. It took her a moment to identify the thing over her mouth as a hand and the texture and smell against her skin and nose as leather. As she fought for breath, another hand captured her wrist and squeezed. In the same motion she was dragged back into the room, her weapon useless now in nerveless fingers. She dropped it as the door was pushed closed behind her. The knife made no sound when it fell on the oriental carpet.
The realization that no one could hear her, or had heard her, made Skye redouble her efforts. She kicked backward, connecting twice in her struggle, but the hold on her never relented. She tried to bite and actually managed to get the leather glove between her teeth once before she sensed a creeping blackness on the edge of her vision. The pressure in her chest became enormous and she clawed at the hand over her mouth. The last thing she
Unaware of passing time, Skye looked over her last draft and decided it was worth recopying in her best handwriting. She stretched, arms flung wide, back arched, before hunching over the desk again like an accounting clerk. She had just set pen to paper when she heard a thud below stairs.
Skye paused, cocked her head to one side, and listened. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the clock on the mantel. It was after one, too late for either her father or her mother still to be up. Mrs. Cavanaugh and her husband had long since retired to their apartment above the carriage house. There were no other servants living on the property.
But there was the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
Rising gingerly from her chair, careful to be quiet, Skye padded barefoot to the door. She fingered the worn threads of her sash as she moved along the hallway to the backstairs. Below her there was silence again. She waited, barely breathing. Just at the point she began to believe she had imagined it, she heard movement again.
It was not possible to know the precise location of the noise. As Skye stealthily made her way down the stairs, she kept hoping she'd find her father in the kitchen with a glass of warm milk, or Mrs. Cavanaugh returned from the carriage house because she'd had a sudden urge to bake bread. Neither explanation seemed particularly likely, and when she reached the bottom of the steps she learned that neither was true. The kitchen was dark and empty and the sounds were coming from somewhere down the hall behind her.
Skye had not considered a weapon until now. She picked up a butcher knife from the wooden cutting block and went into the hallway. There was silence again and Skye learned firsthand how it was possible for silence to be deafening. Blood rushed in her ears, her heart slammed in her chest, and her imagination was marching ahead double time. Having no clear idea what she would do if confronted by an intruder, she went on, opening one door after another, peeking in each room, then stepping back when she found no one.
Outside her father's study she paused again, this time pressing her ear to the door. She crouched and looked through the keyhole. There was a vague light in the room and it startled her until she remembered there had been a fire in the grate. It was only the dying embers, she realized, and turned the handle.
It took a single step into the room to know she was not alone. She felt the presence of another person, the warmth of a body nearby, the tension of fear, the barely audible hum of controlled breathing.
Skye's knuckles whitened on the door handle. She tried to slam the door with herself safely in the hallway, but a foot wedged itself between the door and frame. She opened her mouth to scream and almost immediately something capped the sound. It took her a moment to identify the thing over her mouth as a hand and the texture and smell against her skin and nose as leather. As she fought for breath, another hand captured her wrist and squeezed. In the same motion she was dragged back into the room, her weapon useless now in nerveless fingers. She dropped it as the door was pushed closed behind her. The knife made no sound when it fell on the oriental carpet.
The realization that no one could hear her, or had heard her, made Skye redouble her efforts. She kicked backward, connecting twice in her struggle, but the hold on her never relented. She tried to bite and actually managed to get the leather glove between her teeth once before she sensed a creeping blackness on the edge of her vision. The pressure in her chest became enormous and she clawed at the hand over her mouth. The last thing she