The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter by Mary Ellen Dennis Read Free Book Online Page A

begged, cursed, and cajoled, but he would not be moved.
    The carriage deposited Elizabeth in front of the library steps. “Remember what I told you about why we’re here,” she said to Grace. “Mr. Waterman has been most kind in his compliments concerning my books, and he wishes to discuss them with me.”
    If Grace knew the real reason for the visit, she would trumpet it to the world. Hark! My high and mighty mistress can’t write no more.
    Grace surveyed the library’s imposing columnar front. “I wonder if bats are a problem,” she said, her hands creeping up her mob cap. “I’ve never liked bats.”
    Once inside, they were greeted by the seemingly endless shelves of books. As they made their way toward the rear of the library, per Mr. Waterman’s instructions, Elizabeth heard her maid emit disapproving grunts. Since she couldn’t read, Grace considered books unnecessary, and she was surrounded by far too many of the bothersome things.
    â€œMercy!” she exclaimed. “I wonder who dusts them all.”
    â€œYou never dust at home, so why would that concern you?”
    Before Grace could spew a rebuttal, Elizabeth spied an elderly man who was carefully inspecting the binding of a book. After pointing her maid toward a seat, she approached the stoop-shouldered, white-haired curator.
    â€œWhat a pleasure this is, Miss Wyndham,” Waterman said, taking her hand in his. “I do so enjoy relaxing in the evening with your works.”
    â€œI’m surprised that a man of your learning would find my works interesting,” she responded, charmed as much by the curator’s courtly manner as his compliment.
    â€œHogwash, if you’ll pardon the expression. Most other writers of Gothic novels seem determined to have our ancestors waving pistols and wearing wigs, which, in my humble opinion, are the biggest fashion nuisances ever created. And those silly writers make their characters live in ruined abbeys and crumbling castles, as if our forefathers actually built them that way.”
    Elizabeth had written more than her share of scenes that involved pistols, wigs, and dilapidated buildings, but she pretended to share Mr. Waterman’s outrage. “While an author must keep contemporary taste in mind,” she said, “we must also strive for verisimilitude.”
    â€œExactly! Sometimes you paint a wonderfully accurate picture, Miss Wyndham. I am particularly enjoying Castles of Doom. I can imagine Lord Darkstarre striding through his Great Hall, followed by his yapping dogs and his mastiff. I can hear Ralf bellowing to his men, and I tell myself if Darkstarre did not exist, he certainly should have.”
    â€œThat is high praise indeed,” Elizabeth murmured, even though she privately wondered at the wisdom of having a madman as the most unforgettable character in one’s work.
    â€œListen to me ramble,” Mr. Waterman said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I assure you, I am not generally so voluble.”
    He beckoned her to follow him. As they walked down the poorly-lit hallway, Elizabeth thought: In a few minutes I will know. But what would she know? The hall seemed to contract, and she felt as if the shadows were smothering her, as if someone pressed a gray feather pillow against her nose and mouth. From a great distance, she heard an eerie howl. It sounded like the laughter of a demented soul.
    Elizabeth felt faint. Not enough air! Not enough light! Struggling to breathe, she raised her hand and pressed her palm against her mouth. At the same time, she pinched her nose with her thumb and first finger. Then, realizing what she had done, she dropped her hand and placed it over her racing heart.
    She continued forward, taking deep breaths, trying to keep her panic at bay. Why did she experience such an overwhelming terror? She had never feared the unknown before. Was she afraid that her raven-haired knight—a man