Serafina and the Black Cloak - Robert Beatty Page 0,13

of her body. She wasn’t sure if she looked more like a skinny little shoat to the Vanderbilt boy or like a savage little weasel, but neither of those animals belonged in the house.

There was a part of her—maybe the smart part—that wanted to turn tail and run, but she thought that maybe the young master might be the perfect person to tell about the girl in the yellow dress. The silky-laced adults with all their highfalutin airs wouldn’t pay a smudge-faced girl any mind. But maybe he would.

“I’m Braeden,” he said.

“I’m Serafina,” she blurted out before she could help herself. You fool! Why did you give him your name? It was bad enough that she’d allowed herself to be seen, but now he had a name to go with her face. Her father was going to kill her!

“It’s good to meet you, Serafina,” he said, bowing, as if she deserved the same respect as a proper lady. “This is my friend Gidean,” he said, introducing her to his dog, who continued to sit and study her malevolently with steady black eyes.

“Hello,” she managed to say, but she didn’t appreciate the way the dog stared at her like it was only his master’s command that kept him from chomping on her with his gleaming white teeth.

Gathering her courage, she looked at Braeden Vanderbilt nervously. “Master Braeden, I came up here to tell you something that I saw…”

“Really? What’d you see?” he asked, full of curiosity.

“There was a girl, a pretty blond girl in a yellow dress, down in the basement last night, and I saw a man in a—”

As the coterie of ladies and gentlemen began to flow out of the Tapestry Gallery and move toward the main doors, the handsome Mr. Thorne broke away and approached Braeden, interrupting her.

“Are you coming, young master Vanderbilt?” he asked encouragingly in his Southern accent. “Our horses are ready, and I’m anxious to see your latest riding skills. Perhaps we can ride together.”

Braden’s face lit up with a smile. “Yes, sir, Mr. Thorne,” he called. “I’d like that very much.”

As soon as Mr. Thorne rejoined the others, the young master’s eyes immediately returned to Serafina. “Excuse me, you were telling me what you saw…”

At that moment, Mr. Boseman, the estate superintendent and her pa’s boss, came stomping up the stairs. He’d always been a scowling-faced curmudgeon, and today was no exception. “You there, who are you?” he demanded, clutching Serafina’s arm so hard that she winced. “What’s your name, girl?”

Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, a sudden commotion rose up in the main hall. A disheveled, overweight middle-aged woman still wearing her nightclothes came rushing down the Grand Staircase from the third floor. She crashed into the crowd in a flurry of hysterical panic.

“It’s Mrs. Brahms,” Mr. Boseman said, turning toward the disturbance.

“Has anyone seen my Clara?” Mrs. Brahms cried frantically, reaching out and grabbing the people around her. “Please help me—she’s gone missing! I can’t find her anywhere!”

Mrs. Vanderbilt moved forward and took the woman’s hands in an attempt to calm her. “It’s a very large house, Mrs. Brahms. I’m sure Clara is just off exploring.”

Worried discussion spread through the crowd. All the ladies and gentlemen of the riding party began talking to one another in confusion, wondering what was happening.

Miss Clara Brahms, Serafina thought. That’s the girl in the yellow dress.

The whole time, Mr. Boseman kept his hand clamped on her arm.

She wanted to leap forward and tell everyone what she’d seen, but then what would happen? Where did you come from? they’d demand. What were you doing in the basement in the middle of the night? There’d be all sorts of questions she couldn’t answer.

All of a sudden, Mr. George Vanderbilt, the master of the house, walked into the center of the crowd and raised his hands. “Everyone, may I please have your attention,” he said. All of the guests and servants immediately stopped talking and listened. “I’m sure you all agree that we need to delay our ride and search for Miss Brahms. Once we find her, we’ll resume the activities of the day.”

George Vanderbilt was a slender, dark-haired, intelligent-looking gentleman in his thirties with a thick black mustache and keen, dark, penetrating eyes. He was well known for his love of reading, but he was a fit and healthy-looking man, too, who seemed far younger than his years. And Serafina wasn’t the only one who thought so. She had heard the servants in the kitchen