Mountain Ice (David Dean Mysteries)

Miss M was much nettled when I told her I'd no longer dance to her music and I saw her talking about me to the man who owns this dreadful place. I was fearful he might try to stop me, but there are many girls willing to do as I've done, for food and shelter, so I shan't be missed. One must wonder if the young ladies realize the ordeal that lies before them. My eyes, and those of my few friends, were red with tears when I packed my trifle belongings and walked the short, but oh so long distance to my new home. Happiness should be all I feel but a strange sense of dread is overwhelming any feeling of contentment as I enter this stately home.

Here, my duties are light, even less than our Emma back in Boston. I cook, but mostly toast and tea, and soup in the late afternoon. I dust and sweep but a stern lady looks after the madam whose care is beyond my responsibilities. Heavier chores are left to others. It is a large house, devoid of boarders, though a weathered sign offers such accommodations. Most days, only the forgetful owner, this newly hired cleaning girl called Annie and a standoffish tabby are in residence. It is strange, rising early, sleeping the hours I'd worked so long in the past, and listening to the deathly quiet instead of the rowdy noises of hungry men. I count the roses on the wallpaper.

On those special nights I nervously leave the back door unlatched, and quietly steal to my bed. The house is empty except for old Mrs. Cummings, who snores away her darkness. I don't know if she is aware of our arrangement as few words ever pass between us, but her quarters are far from mine and we will be ever so quiet in our love. I tremble as I wait, more so than even when first I gave myself to a man. So many have come to my bed, but never have I been so unnerved by a nocturnal visitor than when first dear Joshua visited me in the darkest part of the night. Though countless have paid for me, never has a man risked paying so dearly for my body; his honor, his reputation, his family and even his soul.

Fred O'Connor finished reading the latest pages as Mrs. Lincoln crawled onto his lap. It was barely evening but the darkening clouds and winter season begrimed the outside as black as a slum landlord's heart. Dean started a fire for the returning guests but then joined his wife and stepfather in the kitchen.