Chapter 3: Curses, Carriages, and Consequences

Hearing this, the governor’s pained expression turns suspicious. “Mason, are you trying to kill me?” His voice is weak, but there’s real suspicion there. Mason looks like he wants to sink through the floor.

The young master is speechless. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, at a loss for words.

In the end, the matter is settled with the young master grounded for a month. The governor lays down the law, and Mason sulks off to his room. The rest of the house tiptoes around for days, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

But the governor really is something. After just three days of rest, he’s back at work again. He’s tougher than he looks. By the end of the week, he’s striding through the halls like nothing happened, though he still winces every time he sits down.

I thought that was the end of it. I’m already making plans to take a long weekend, maybe visit my aunt in Nashville.

Unexpectedly, one night, the governor stands at my door again—still holding that box. He knocks softly, almost shyly, as if he’s afraid to wake the ghosts.

I clutch my bathrobe tighter, eyeing him warily. The last thing I need is another midnight confession. I brace myself for whatever’s coming.

But the governor shyly raises his head. “I have a request, Doc Harper.” He clears his throat, glancing down at the box like it’s about to bite him.

“Can you help me give this pen to Mrs. Whitaker?” To Mrs. Whitaker? For a moment, I wonder if I misheard him. The governor’s always been careful with gifts, especially ones with a reputation.

I almost think I misheard. My mind races, trying to make sense of it. Why would he want to give the pen to his own wife?

Just like in those romance novels, the favorite is beautiful and adored, while the lady of the house is dignified and known for her virtue. If you want to play with something, it should be with the favorite. The unwritten rule in houses like this is that the favorite gets the fun, the wife gets the respect. But this pen… it’s trouble for anyone.

But since the governor asked, I can only take the box to Mrs. Whitaker’s suite in the middle of the night. I wrap the box in a silk handkerchief, just in case, and tiptoe down the hall. The house is quiet, shadows stretching long across the floor.

Passing near Miss Delaney’s rooms, I suddenly hear the familiar jingle of charm bracelets. The sound is soft, musical, a little warning bell that someone’s awake.

“Doc Harper, where are you headed?” The voice is smooth, almost amused. I turn to see a carriage drawn up by the curb, the lanterns flickering in the night.

I turn and see Mrs. Whitaker’s carriage behind me. The curtain is half lifted, revealing her gentle, regal face. She looks me up and down, her gaze finally landing on the box in my hands. She’s the picture of Southern grace, her hair swept back, pearls gleaming at her throat. Her eyes are sharp, though, missing nothing.

I step forward and present the box. I hold it out with both hands, trying to look respectful and not at all nervous.

“The governor asked you to deliver this?” Her voice is calm, but I sense a hint of anger. There’s an edge to her words, a warning beneath the politeness.

“Yes, ma’am. He specifically asked me to bring it.” I keep my tone steady, hoping she won’t ask too many questions.

“Well, how thoughtful.” She says it with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. I get the feeling she’s not thrilled about this ‘gift.’

Mrs. Whitaker’s bejeweled hand gently brushes the pen. Her fingers linger for a moment, tracing the smooth surface. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes—recognition, maybe, or suspicion.

Just as I think my job is done, she pushes the box back into my hands and turns to leave. She doesn’t say a word, just turns on her heel, carriage door swinging shut behind her. I’m left standing in the moonlight, feeling like I’ve been dismissed by royalty.

Wait, Mrs. Whitaker doesn’t want it? Is she returning the governor’s gift? Do I have to give it back to him? My mind races, trying to figure out what to do next. The last thing I want is to be caught in the middle of a family squabble.

I stand there, a bit lost. The night air is cool, and I shiver, clutching the box tighter.

After a few steps, Mrs. Whitaker comes back, face dark, and orders her maid to forcibly take the box from me. “Tell Miss Delaney I’ve taken away what she loves.” Her voice is cold, clipped, brooking no argument. The maid snatches the box and hurries off.

No, ma’am! This was meant for you in the first place! I want to call after her, but think better of it. Some battles aren’t worth fighting.

I want to explain, but Mrs. Whitaker’s carriage rolls off like she’s being chased by ghosts, vanishing down the drive. The horses pick up speed, the wheels clattering against the gravel. Within seconds, she’s gone.

Watching her storm off, I can only silently mourn for the governor. I shake my head, muttering a silent prayer for his sanity. This pen’s going to haunt him for weeks.

Just as I’m about to leave, a little maid from Miss Delaney’s rooms peeks out. She’s got big brown eyes and a nervous smile. I recognize her—she’s always the one sent to fetch tea or run errands.

“Doc Harper, my lady wants to see you.” She tugs at my sleeve, eyes darting down the hallway. Whatever’s going on, it’s got her spooked.

Miss Delaney has been troubled lately. Word travels fast in the mansion. The staff have been whispering about Miss Delaney’s sleepless nights and her maid’s strange behavior.

Her maid, Holly, fell into the backyard pond two days ago, hit her head on a rock, and after waking up, seemed like a different person. She forgot all her skills in baking and sewing and keeps saying the weirdest things. The story’s made the rounds—Holly, once shy and obedient, now talks back and burns the biscuits. The kitchen is in uproar.

The little maid lowers her voice. “She’s acting so strange, my lady can’t sleep at night.” She glances over her shoulder, as if Holly might appear at any moment. I nod, promising to look into it.

Entering the sitting room, I’m hit by a strong wave of lavender-scented candles. The air is thick with the scent, almost enough to make my eyes water. Miss Delaney is sprawled on the couch, a vision in silk and lace, but the worry lines on her face betray her.

Miss Delaney reclines on a soft couch, her once radiant face now dull, eyes listless. She grabs my hand like a lifeline. Her grip is surprisingly strong, desperation shining in her eyes. I squeeze her hand back, offering silent reassurance.

“You’re finally here! You have no idea what I’ve been through!” Her voice cracks, and I can hear the exhaustion in every word. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.

I nod. I know. Of course I know. I give her a sympathetic smile. In a place like this, secrets pile up fast, and everyone’s got a story.

There’ve been similar cases in the mansion before. A little maid in Mrs. Whitaker’s suite woke up with a changed personality. She refused to do chores, shouting about “equal rights,” “women’s independence,” and lecturing the ladies for relying on men. She even told Mrs. Whitaker, “When the governor meets a modern woman, your old-fashioned status won’t matter anymore.”

The memory makes me grin. That little maid had more spunk than the rest of the staff put together. The ladies were scandalized, the governor bemused.

She tried some silly tricks to get the governor’s attention. Before Mrs. Whitaker could step in, the governor had enough. He drank her homemade bubble tea, got sick for a whole day and night, and wanted her fired the next morning.

The ‘bubble tea incident’ is still legendary among the staff. The governor wouldn’t touch tapioca pearls for months afterward.