Free Eulogy's Secret (The Huntley Trilogy) by Grace Elliot Page A

wondering if she should call on him for help, then thought better of it and hurriedly pushed the card back into her pocket.
    One Friday morning, just over a week after her arrival, Eulogy and Mrs. Featherstone worked together in the front parlor; dust tickled their throats as they took down the curtains for a beating.
    “Here, take the corners,” Mrs. Featherstone instructed, as they folded the first set of drapes. “You look tired, dear. I’m not working you too hard?”
    “Oh no! Quite the opposite. I like hard work.”
    “Mr. Farrell would have you stay as long as you need.”
    “But he has been so generous. I can’t possibly impose much longer, not without bringing money in.” So much weighed on her mind, she needed new clothes and longed to call again on Devlin but couldn’t in her old, brown dress.
    “Hush, chick, things have a habit of working themselves out. Don’t go being in a rush to leave now.”
    “But I hate being a burden.”
    “Pssh, don’t be daft. You’re never that, besides, look how this place has cheered up since you arrived. I didn’t want to admit, but it’s too much for me alone.”
    A shaft of sunlight shone approvingly through freshly cleaned windows.
    “And besides, you’re a reet tonic for Mr. Farrell. It’s the closest to a miracle I’ve ever seen, leaving off the drink like that. And that’s your doing.”
    Eulogy nodded slowly. It was true Farrell now smelt of carbolic soap rather than alcohol, and his face was losing its bloated puffiness. Each evening at supper he was shaven and wearing a clean shirt. But as his appearance became more conventional, his behavior certainly didn’t. Indeed he had the most alarming habit of staring that made her squirm, and then he would jump up and hurry away, muttering under his breath.
    “And happen,” Mrs. Featherstone interrupted her thoughts, “happen the master’s getting back to his old ways.”
    “What do you mean?”
    A smile softened the old woman’s face. “Happen as yer’ll find out for yerself, when the master’s good and ready.”
     
     
    Once the main rooms had been thorougly cleaned, Eulogy moved her attention to the rest of the house. She set about tackling the cobwebs on the second floor landing. As she cast around for something to stand on to reach the highest corners, Mr. Farrell came up the stairs.
    “Ah, Mauvoreen! I’ve been looking for you.”
    “Oh, Mr. Farrell, please hand me that broom?”
    The Irishman shook his head.
    “Later. Leave that. You must come with me.” Farrell’s blue eyes sparkled, like a child’s at Christmas.
    “Why? What’s happened?” She placed the duster over the mahogany banister. “Is something amiss?”
    To her surprise Farrell chuckled. “Oh no…but I need your opinion.”
    “Very well. Let me just tidy these things away.”
    “Oh no,” Farrell all but hopped impatiently from one foot to another, “no time. Come! Now!”
    Puzzled, Eulogy put down her duster and followed him up the staircase, wondering at the cause of Farrell’s eccentricity. He took the stairs two at a time, forcing Eulogy to hurry until she found herself higher in the house than she’d been before, on a cramped landing with no window. Ahead of her in the gloom, Farrell turned a key and a door creaked open. Biblical shafts of light threw him briefly into silhouette as he vanished inside the attic room.
    Bemused, Eulogy entered to find herself in a large, open space beneath the roof, cluttered with what appeared to be random clutter and old furniture. She blinked and as her eyes became accustomed to the brightness, she made out empty picture frames, canvasses, and a chaos of brushes, paints and pots, uniformly grey beneath a blanket of dust.
    “What is this place?” Despite the disorder, the attic held promise as a bright, airy place. The sun shone bravely through a glass roof, albeit encrusted with decades of grime.
    “My studio.”
    With a burst of energy, Farrell swept a pile of books from